Seminole Bingo
by thefilmchick
Summary: The connections of a Florida loser, a Tennessee newspaperman, and an Iraqi merchant prince become clear on the island. Focus shifts mainly between Sawyer and Sayid, many flashbacks. Language, horror, war violence. R&R welcomed.
1. Splendid Isolation

**I: Splendid Isolation**

Everyone comes to the island. Even him.

It's early still, and the sun hangs over the water like a ship's searchlight, beaming dawn on whatever it finds. _No,_ Sawyer thinks. _Don't think of searchlights. There's nobody out there. There hasn't been for the last fifty days. Just that damn boat that took the kid, and you don't want _that_ to come looking for you._ So then, in his mind, it changes to a harsher glare: The bulb of a lamp in an Australian police station, unwelcome and suddenly, frustratingly dazzling.

He turns away from the glare. It's better not to get a headache again. Having to wear glasses the Arab made is bad enough. Admitting that he would prefer to wear them than suffer through the headaches is even worse.

Closer to the beach, a gull lets out a cry of triumph, swooping into the sea to claim its prize, wresting a flopping fish from the water with a jerk of effort and a twist of the beak. Upon the sand, a crab scuttles out of a moist dent in the hard-packed ground, jittering sideways and away from Sawyer.

They can live here with any help. Why can't he? This should be a survivalist's paradise, and he's always prided himself on his ability to survive anything. He's got enough. Hell, since they've found the supplies that he knew had to be hidden away somewhere, he's had more than he ever expected to have on the island. And it's not like there's a bunch of people fighting him for the ability to strike out on their own.

However, he can't seem to tear himself away from the camp, no matter how hard he tries. He keeps coming back to the people there. It's like home. "Homesickness," he mutters to himself, spitting out sibilants. "Son of a bitch."

The sun's moving higher over the beach. He takes a last, long look at the camp, and turns his attention to the sea. Maybe he can swim across to whatever shore lies beyond. He used to do laps in the runoffs from the Holston as a kid, so why couldn't he do the same now? Even if he wouldn't make it to shore, maybe he'd run into the boat again. Take at least one of them down with him, maybe give that kid Walt a chance to escape. That'd be worth it.

Sawyer ambles forward until his bare feet splash unceremoniously in the water. It doesn't feel like Southern water. As old as the Holston is, it doesn't compare to this. This is simply brilliant and clear, and he can see beneath the surface, all the way to the crawling, living sand underneath and the fish that flit around his legs. He stares, momentarily fascinated, and leans down to get a better look at what's beneath. He can just make out the outline of something that looks like a dog-tag.

_Military._ He's old enough to remember those sorts of dog-tags hanging around the necks of guys gone nuts from Vietnam, the little bits of metal the last vestiges of pride they have. There's nobody old enough to have served except for maybe the black woman's husband that was with the Tailies, and John Locke, but he can't see either serving. The husband is too soft. Locke would have gotten shipped out on a Section Eight, possibly even faster than Sawyer himself would have been.

He dips his hand into the water, scooping for the tag to try and free it from the rock that it had gotten pinned beneath. 4-8-16, no, 15…

"What are you doing?" He'd expected to hear the convict darling, Kate, but the voice is thinner, reedier. It's tolerable, though, and at least it's not the Hispanic woman come to punch him out. He turns and sees khakis, freshly laundered. Blond hair, a careworn face, a woman a few years older than he, if that. It's one of the Tailies, that psychologist. He's no fan of psychologists. He was sent to one after his parents died, but that didn't do any good. He can't see the Tailie being much help now, either.

"Fishing," he tells her, feeling his voice go thick with sarcasm. "See, I saw Chew – that Korean guy – do it with a net, and I thought, hell, anything those Commies can do with a net, we can do without one, right?" He grabs for a fish halfheartedly, but feels it squirt between his fingers, watches it dart out to the waters beyond. He tries to cover for that failure: "Libby, ain't it?"

"Sure you were." The psychologist's voice suggests that she's not buying his excuse. He can tell. "And yes, it's Libby. You're looking better." The woman studies his shoulder, her eyes critical. The wound hadn't felt that bad today, but now that she's looking at the white wrapping around his arm, he can feel it too, the sudden, sharp pains stabbing at him like he'd stuck his arm in a wasp's nest all the way up.

"I'm feelin' better," he assures her, lying through his teeth, making sure he shows them to her in a broad smile. "You're up early, Libby." He squares his shoulders. "You're a bit too late for a night visit, but there's nothing sayin' you can't make the offer now. Better late than never."

Libby doesn't answer. In fact, he notices, she looks momentarily confused. When she seems to realize what he's talking about, she gives him a tight little smirk – unamused – and then looks up towards his face again. "I've been meaning to talk to you, Sawyer." Her eyes flick to the water near where he'd been reaching for the dog-tag, and he tenses slightly. "It's Ana-Lucia. I don't think she's in control of herself anymore. I've heard people talking."

"Rambina?" Sawyer grins tightly. "A damn walking advertisement for PMS medication." Another unamused smile. Con men are good at telling real grins from fake, and she's giving him a fake one now. All he can do is to say, "Sorry," and turn his attention back to the water, hiding his uneasiness.

The dog-tag floats there. 15… 16, so that _is_ 16… 20-something.

"I'm serious, Sawyer."

"I ain't interested in her, or anyone else on this damn island. Can't help you. Sorry." And he turns his back on her. Time to start swimming. Maybe he can get to the boat by noon, and be dead by twelve-thirty. It sounds like a decent plan, as long as he can be assured that the kid will make it out OK because of him.

The gull that had gotten the fish continues to hover in the distance, and he watches it. He's not going to check out that dog-tag until the woman goes away, and he can tell from her voice that she hasn't moved even a step: "You need to get along with others. It's going to be have to dealt with, or it'll come back around."

20… 20-what? 23. 23, 42. _Wait. She just –_

Sawyer swallows, doesn't let Libby see it. He turns slowly, pivoting on a heel, careful to hide as much of himself as he can until he's totally facing her.

She's staring, her light eyes wide and her face expressionless. It's a good poker face. She normally looks worn out, but he can't see a single line in the smooth, impassive face now.

The gull dives, hits the water, clutching, grasping, spears another fish and brings it up, heedless of the flipping and tossing, the water droplets flung off the smooth, shiny body, the viscous fluid leaking from the side where the bird has hit. A triumphant cry echoes across the beach, reverberating into the jungle.

In the jungle, a dog picks it up, a golden-retriever ear cocked to hear the sound. It runs through the dog's body and into the ground, carried by earthworms through their nerve-tangle tunnels to the heart of the island.

In the heart of the island, a counter hits a hundred and eight, and a song from the hippie days hits its groove with a needle and a speaker.

In the speaker, a voice rings out, _"You've got to…"_

"Wake up. You've got to wake up!"

Sawyer's eyelids flutter. He wakes up to stare into milky eyes and a lined face. Libby the psychologist is kneeling over him, her thin voice urging him to awaken. They're in high grass. A handful of people are crowded around him, only two of them very familiar, but he sees concern on many of their faces, and ear. That scares him. He can feel his lips tighten, and his jaw go tense.

"I'm fine," he asserts, although he's not sure if he's telling everyone else this, or just himself. "Get off 'a me. Forty-eight days in the jungle, and you folks are treatin' me like a damn kid. It ain't that bad."

They back off, just as he'd hoped. He glares at them a little bit more, trying to raise himself off the ground. It doesn't work at first, and he can see a canteen being passed down his way. Try as he might, he can't feel anything but relieved, though a spiteful voice in his head says that he's ungrateful for it, that he doesn't deserve it. He takes a deep drink of the water, and he can feel his Adam's apple bob with the sip, timing itself to that damn-fool song that still echoes in his head.

Underneath where he's fallen, he can feel the ground thrumming along to that hippie song.

Everything ends in the island. Even him.


	2. Mohammed’s Radio

**II: Mohammed's Radio**

The kerosene line was longer than it had been the last few days. As he headed towards it, an oilcan tucked under each arm, Sayid could see the people in the line murmuring about something, a blur of shifting, fidgety folds of cloth. He squinted against the Tikriti sun to get a better glimpse of the situation, closing in one the end of the line.

"No more kerosene, they say." Turning to face him was a fellow the same age as he, wearing a jacket that might have been fashionable in the West back when they were teenagers. Sayid recognized the man as a schoolmate and army compatriot: Ibrahim Mahdi. "They ran out. They say the next shipment will be coming in the following week."

Sayid's eyes widened, but he just nodded. Even smiled, though he didn't feel like it. It was best to be polite. "Very well. We'll just have to get used to a week without kerosene. It's happened before, Ibrahim. Republic Radio says that we're bound to – "

" – Suffer these indignities while the Westerners live off our oil, yes." Ibrahim paused, his eyes flicking away for a moment. "But don't you want to do something? I mean, shouldn't we do something?"

This was a dangerous question. To answer no would be a lie, and it would also probably get him in trouble. To answer yes would mean that he might get dragged into some scheme, and those days were past. "If you feel you should do something, Ibrahim, then it is your duty before God."

Ibrahim didn't seem pleased by the answer, but he nodded. "It will indeed be my duty."

That was worrying. He could see it all going badly right then, but he could say nothing against is friend. Everyone would notice, and that bore a distinct potential for harm to himself, if not Ibrahim as well. He lifted his gaze to the crowd to survey them, suddenly realizing that the other people in line had moved on to get their oil and the line itself had dissipated. They were alone. He could take the chance.

He hesitated, felt his arms grow tight around the oil cans where they rested against the flat surface, his hands curl as if in some preliminary means of self-defense. Ibrahim was still looking at him, now curious. Sayid leaned in, dropped his voice. There was no sense in taking unnecessary chances. "You will get yourself killed, Ibrahim, if you do something alone."

"Then I will be a martyr."

Sayid fought back laughter at that, took a better look at Ibrahim, sizing him up. Bookish, bespectacled Ibrahim had been the student against whom he had always competed as a schoolboy, and Sayid had been jealous of him when younger. The maturity that the ensuing years brought had made both first acquaintances and then fast friends, especially after combat, but Sayid had never been able to shake the image of Ibrahim as all too studious, and nowhere near martial or mercenary. _He is not martyr material,_ Sayid thought, and although he felt badly for thinking it, he knew it was true.

"You may be a hero. You will not be a martyr. God does not demand this of us over a week's worth of oil. It is demanded it if we have suffered a loss to our persons or our families, and you have suffered no such loss."

"Then I will find a way to be a martyr, _sadikie_. You have helped me find one."

There was a certain calculation in Ibrahim's voice, but he couldn't quite identify it. He would have to watch his friend, Sayid knew, sizing him up. But what could he say? He grasped at straws, trying to find the words that would show his friend why it was not right to go out and kill Westerners.

"Ibrahim, you don't just – " Sayid began. He shook his head, started anew, but only repeated himself. "You don't just decide that you want to be a martyr against the Westerners. The world doesn't work like that. You went to college in Cairo too, didn't you? Surely you have more sense than a ten-year-old, or have I overestimated you?"

Ibrahim was silent.

–––

Republic Radio had always been popular in the province of Salah ad Din. As he moved through the Tikrit streets, Sayid could hear a broadcast from the radio drifting in from one of the sets someone owned in the marketplace. It was choppy and full of static, but he was used to that. Since the aerial attacks on the radio stations that the Westerners had delivered during the war, it was rare that they would get a broadcast that was either uninterrupted or wholly audible.

He stopped at a stall, finding it about to close. Perhaps he could get a better deal, for the food kept overnight might be less desirable the following morning. The shopkeeper seemed to be absent, however. Sayid would have to wait for a few moments for the fellow's return, so he leaned back on his heels to stay and watch for the vendor's return.

Three minutes. Five minutes. Nothing happened. Even a polite 'Excuse me?' cast to the alleyway that led back from the kiosk merited no reaction. And the more he looked at the food, the hungrier he got. Perhaps he could just leave the money with the food and go. It was not the most businesslike manner in which to act, but it would have to do. He pulled out his money, checking it to ensure he had enough, and then stepped around to the side of the kiosk.

At first, he thought that maybe the flies were buzzing around some spoiled fruit in the back. Swallowing hard to try and choke down the contents of his stomach, he leaned in, a bag of dates in one hand and his spare coinage in another.

They were buzzing around a body.

He would not shout aloud. Whomever had killed the shopkeeper might still be around. He had to make sure that the shopkeeper was dead, and that he could do nothing for him. His sense of ethics demanded it. Shuffling in a little closer, he toed at the body to try and turn it over, and found it surprisingly resistant.

The only thing he could think, however, was, _I should have remembered how heavy a body gets after the person that was within it is dead._ And then he hated the thought. It quickly disappeared when he saw the hole in the side of the man's head, amidst matted and blood-soaked black hair. It had been made by a small pistol, and he had been shot close to the head, from the pattern of impact. Bits of brain had leaked, squishy and soft and now beset by flies and worse.

Should he call the police? _Certainly not,_ he thought. He did not know whom the shopkeeper was or why he had been killed. Perhaps the police had killed him, in which case he would do well to avoid being sympathetic. What should he do, then? If only the shopkeeper's relatives were here, or someone he could to whom he could hand the body off. He had barely said a dozen words to the man in his life, and now he was being charged with the man's soul and afterlife.

Anything for a diversion. Near the body was a small radio, and he was surprised to find it on. As he tried to figure out what he should do about the body, he listened in. "… possibility of attacks by rebel forces against the noble people of Iraq..."

Sayid almost laughed at that. Here he was, with a body at his feet, and the broadcasters, the Husseins' spoiled rich-prince friends, were telling him that he just might be attacked. No great prophets, they.

–––

He had left the body. It had disappeared over night. He was not sure why, to where, or by whom, but he figured it was best not to ask such questions. Receiving the answers might be more danger than he wanted to brave.

Home to read, then, and study up on the advances in mechanics. He had managed to inherit a couple of _Popular Science_ magazines from an old university friend in Cairo, and so what if they were ten years old? He could still learn the fundamentals. Besides, it was good that they were American magazines, too. The more he could learn about the Americans' tactics and advancements, the better he could serve the Republican Army if it came to that. Maybe this time, he would get a position that did not involve interrogating childhood friends. One could hope.

They were talking about radio waves and communications in the issue that he hadn't yet read. That was good. Communications were his forte, and he settled onto the seat near his bookcase, flipping a few pages absently until he got to the article. It took a moment for him to switch his mind to this convoluted form of English, but not terribly long. After a while reading the articles, they had gotten easier to sift through. "As the ionosphere gets colder, the ability of short waves to broadcast lessens. Thus, short-wave radio broadcasts in a ionosphere affected by pollution or other diverse environmental conditions can be interrupted or suffer in performance."

Perhaps that was happening to Republic Radio. Sayid had to grin at the possibility, briefly envisioning an array of American politicians deciding just how cold they had to make the air around Iraq. It was an entertaining thought. It was a thought that he had better not tell Ibrahim.

–––

Uday Hussein's Voice of Youth radio was running broadcasts of popular Western music again, but he felt too old for that, even at merely thirty. Perhaps there was a clandestine station on which he could find something different. His finger dotted the search button, and he felt it quaver as he heard a familiar name.

"Ibrahim Mahdi is described as a hundred eighty centimeters, of a medium build and in traditional dress." Crackle, crackle. Static-laden as the broadcast was, it made Sayid nonetheless flinch and stare at the radio. "… the day after his uncle, a shopkeeper in Tikrit was found dead, Mahdi was rumored to have killed the local Ba'ath party official, blaming the government for his uncle's death. Such a clearly insane man will be dealt with severely when apprehended by authorities, but the government urges – "

"Caution." That was not his voice. It was Ibrahim's. "Do you leave the door to your apartment unlocked all the time, Sayid? You never know who can walk in through the door – or perhaps you were distracted. I wonder why."

Eyes wide, Sayid swung around to face the fellow. He saw the gun in his friend's hand. A pistol. _That_ pistol. He could tell. "You gave me a good reason to be distracted," he tried for humor, smiling a little before he felt the grin fail. "You hope to kill the Westerners by murdering your uncle and the Ba'athists? There's a flaw in your logic, Ibrahim."

Ibrahim shook his head. And it all became clear: "I hope to kill the Ba'athists. Killing my uncle gave me a pretext. I had not expected to be seen in the commission of the second killing, and I certainly had not expected it to be aired on the radio, least of all so that my friend from childhood could hear it."

_Friend from childhood?_ Sayid thought. Now was not the time to wonder about that, though. There were certainly more pressing concerns before him. "Then why are you here? Why come here?"

"To show you what I've done. So you can see what needs to be done." Ibrahim's fingers tensed on the gun; Sayid noted the shift in the grip from something extending towards him to something more clutching, as if he might throw the gun at any given moment. _That's a strange grasp with which to try to shoot at someone._

"So you are not a martyr, but a murderer," Sayid said slowly.

"They are destroying us, Sayid." Ibrahim took a step closer. Sayid did not dare take a step further away. "They have destroyed you. You told me what happened with that girl, how you did not get shot by her and inadvertently allow her to escape. You said how you set that up. You were weak. They are weak. And you are reading," Ibrahim's glance took in the chair, the English writing on the magazine thereupon, the glossy cover, "American magazines. That shows how far gone we are. We need a return to Sharia, to Islam."

"We have Islam. We are a devout people. You know that. We merely do not have the extreme ways that – "

"GLORY TO GOD!"

Ibrahim's shout cut him off, and he could only stare, momentarily dulled into inaction. It seemed to happen in hours, but in reality he knew it was only a few seconds between the pistol's being lifted, planted against Ibrahim's head by his friend's own hand, a hand that was already shaking, and the reverberation of the shot in the tiny apartment. He staggered back from the sight before him, collapsing awkwardly into the chair as Ibrahim dropped to the floor.

He could not act. He could not think. He could only listen to the noise in his apartment, and the sounds outside, the commotion of shouts and sirens that was already beginning. As he stared in shock, the radio picked up on the next station. Over in Baghdad, Uday Hussein's station, Voice of Youth, was playing that song from _Titanic_.


	3. Disorder in the House

**III: Disorder in the House**

NEWS-SENTINEL: Knoxville, Tennessee. April 19, 1976.  
Written by Barry Dana.

The murder-suicide of a young couple living on Magnolia Avenue, near Pellissippi Tech, has been reported to our news bureau. Police are currently seeking any leads on the cause of the death; it is reported that an argument erupted between the husband and wife, leading to the murder of the wife and suicide of the husband. The couple's young son has been relocated to child services, pending the arrival of his extended family in the city. Anyone with tips is encouraged to call the Eastern Tennessee Department of the State Police, located here in Knoxville: (865) 555-4815.

–––

Social workers. Ladies with crocodile purses who cried crocodile tears. They hovered over him, getting him Kool-Aid and a Viewmaster, saying, "Don't worry, Jimmy, honey. They'll be here soon." They were lying. Ever since that night, everyone had lied to him.

He couldn't stand being called Jimmy, either. That was the name of that guy from Georgia, the one who was running for President – not his name. He couldn't get them to call him 'James' the right way, though. They'd always give him a patient look and say it like they were just doing it to make him feel better, not like they really meant it. Lord, if there wasn't anything that made him more upset than that, he didn't know what it was. He couldn't show them that, though. He didn't know these people. If he got upset, he didn't know what would happen.

So James-not-Jimmy sat there in the Knoxville Youth Cottages. He hated the name, too. It was fake. He knew what this was. It was an orphanage. He had spoken with his mother's family, over in North Carolina just to the east, but they couldn't say anything better than an I'm-so-sorry-and-don't-worry-it'll-be-sorted-out. No promises to come and get him. He knew better.

The Kool-Aid wasn't made the right way, either. His mother had made it the right way, but she wouldn't do that ever again. This was watered-down, a blood-red but weirdly weak fruit punch that looked just like the blood that had dripped down on his father's hand as it dropped over the edge of the –

"Jimmy? Jimmy, there's someone to see you."

He didn't answer at first, until he realized that the blond, terrifying woman in front of him was talking to him. He didn't mind not drinking any more of the Kool-Aid , though, and so he stood, rubbing at his eyes with his hand. His relatives were here, and he couldn't let them see him cry. From the way his granddad had spoken, it sounded like the last thing they wanted was a kid to take care of. He'd turn into an adult as soon as possible, then. That wouldn't make them like him, but at least they might be able to stand him that way.

His hand dropped to his side, the striped shirtsleeve annoyingly wet. He hadn't cried, though. He told himself that. He put on his polite voice, trying to remember his manners. "Who is it, ma'am?"

No answer. James-not-Jimmy felt a current strike, sending him reeling. He dug his toes into the wall-to-wall carpeting, trying to stay upright. His grandfather hadn't come yet.

Blond pageboy terror was replaced with black Afro terror. He knew they were entirely different people, but they may as well have been twins. The last few hours had taught him that all social workers looked the same, just like all librarians looked the same. Librarians were shy and somehow frightened, like they'd stepped right out of _Bambi_, but social workers were women who looked like the Michelin Man. Sometimes they even had beards.

So there was a large version of Cleopatra Jones bearing down on him, and he felt himself shrink away, grow glum, sink his chin down. "Whaddaya want?" His mother's voice: _Remember your manners._ "Ma'am?" came only after a moment, and rather sourly at that.

"I have some forms for you." She thrust a pencil at him like a sword on the attack. "I need you to sign them. You don't need to read the. They're too hard for you to understand." Her tone rattled him. He bit his lip, took the pencil cautiously, and gave her a confused look. "Your custody is being transferred to the state, Jimmy. Do you know what that means?"

He did know what that meant. His mouth dropped open, though, and he stared in shock, not even thinking to correct his name. _So they're not coming._ He felt like an idiot for thinking something better would happen.

She thought he didn't understand. "That means you're joining us here at the Youth Cottages, sugar." He couldn't decide whether that was worse than 'Jimmy.' Both were terrible. "We'll take you back home to Magnolia Street for a few hours. You'll be allowed to bring two boxes of your belongings back here, so start thinking about what you want to keep." She showed him a box, not much bigger than that in which he had gotten new shoes with his mother a week ago. Shoes over which his mother had tripped when she had been shot; he had seen them, soaked with blood from her gunshot wound, as he'd been taken out of the house after –

_No._

Trying his best to pay attention to what she was saying, he thought it over for a moment. He wanted to protest. But what could he say? "I think I deserve more stuff"? No, he deserved this, and no more. He reached out for the Kool-Aid, taking a shaky sip, doing his best not to spill it, and his best to figure out the harder sentences in the papers he was supposed to be signing, without telling the social workers that he could.

They would have many forms. He would sign them all as James. Nobody would notice. They would keep calling him 'Jimmy,' and in time, he would stop being annoyed by it, at least outwardly. To spite the social workers, he would make it out of the house on Magnolia Street with only one box of his things – a loose-leaf notebook and some of his father's stamps atop the small array.


	4. Hostage O

**IV: Hostage-O**

NEWS-SENTINEL: Knoxville, Tennessee. February 2, 1991.  
Editorial Written by Barry Dana, Reuters, on Location in Iraq.

Pending reports on the border capture of Bob Simon, a journalist from CBS News, by Iraqi forces, journalists are expected to stand down here in Kuwait. We have to date limited capability to go near the front lines, and must vet our reports with the military brass. Next to me, my photographer, Garrett, spends his days playing with a Game Boy and his nights telling stories with the men. It is all I can do not to scream our frustration to the military brass, but nobody will listen. Even Simon's name has been a joke around here, a oft-cited reason to limit journalists' access to troops and action. (NOTE TO SELF: FINISH BY FEBRUARY 1. - B. L. Dana.)

–––

"Rather ironic, don't you think?"

He amused himself, but the portly blond man before Sayid did not look entertained. He did not look comfortable, either, and briefly Sayid wondered if Dana had ever been held at gunpoint before. From the darting looks the fat man kept on giving the Kalashnikovs, he suspected that the American had never been in such a situation.

They'd thought they had caught the journalist in a moment of carelessness, but Sayid was now ready to instead attribute it to stupidity. The jalopy that the journalist had borrowed to sneak in and go behind enemy lines had broken down, and rather than go into hiding and pray that he wasn't found, Mr. Barry Dana had decided to wave his arms wildly and shout for help in American-accented English, loud and clear to at least the nearby ridges. Perhaps the man had figured that he was close enough to the border that American forces would reach him before Iraqi Republican Guardsmen. He had miscalculated.

"I thought American forces would be on their way."

Sayid tried to keep the amazement out of his voice, if only halfheartedly. "Have you never heard of a patrol battalion?" He leaned forward, waving one of the rifles away. "You have made a monumentally foolish decision this afternoon, Mr. Dana. We will treat you well, though. Better than the fellow journalist who is being held. Have no fear we will act otherwise."

They were phony words. He could feel their plastic quality, and was uncomfortable with it. He pressed his lips together in something that he figured at least approximated a smile, and waved for the man to be helped up.

"What – what's goin' to happen to me?"

Sayid almost lied, told him he would be fine, before thinking better of it. The journalist had been a fool. He deserved to die a fool's death. He did not deserve dishonesty, cheating. "I don't know," he said, making an effort to meet Dana's eyes, to connote his honesty. "You will be taken back to our reserve theater. I am not in charge of making those decisions, however. Ibrahim! _Yalla_!"

At Sayid's command to hurry up, his bespectacled acquaintance took charge of the journalist, a hand encircling the man's immense arm. They were fairly matched, Sayid thought. One was skinny and weak, the other fat and weak. The symmetry of it pleased him, although he knew nobody else would understand why.

"_Yalla_ – what does that mean? I don't speak Arabic. I'm just a troop reporter. I ain't a – I ain't a front lines guy," Dana bleated.

"It means you shut up, man of fat," Ibrahim said, more than a bit halting in his command of English. He pushed Dana forward.

Although he just about corrected that, Sayid almost instantly saw no need to give the proper translation. There was no need to give Dana the impression that they were anything less than a unified front. Another phony smile sufficed as his response. So onto the truck they went, Ibrahim and himself sitting in back with the prisoner, as the vehicle set off for the checkpoint, tugging Dana's stolen jalopy in its wake with a rope.

As he studied the dullard of a journalist, Sayid thought, _The reporter has a curious accent. I've seen it in that old American film, with the man who frankly doesn't give a damn, and others as well. Tennessee Williams' plays._ He resolved to find out precisely where the accent came from. He could only hope the man wouldn't have his tongue cut out before that point.


	5. I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead

**V: I'll Sleep When I'm Dead**

"Your reading is going better?" A familiar voice, heavy with an accent that's almost English, but not quite. It's not the Australian girl, either – it's far too deep for that. The alternative is worse: Uncle Abdullah has come for a chat. It's funny how, when you're stuck in bed, everyone wants to be your best friend. Sawyer supposes that could even extend to the Arab, much as it kills him to think so.

_Fantastic,_ Sawyer thinks. He straightens from where he's been slouched upon the bunk in the hatch, reading L'Engle for the hundredth time. Books are at a premium. He can't be choosy and, apparently, he can't have any time alone, either. Everyone's always checking up on him, making sure he needs the smallest thing. It's insulting. If he needs something, he'll get it. He can get off this bed if he wants to and make his own damn food. There has to be something left over, somewhere.

It's strange, too, how right he was about the extra supplies. They'd found them, in the hatch. There's an amazing amount down here, and he's grateful for it. He wants to investigate the rest of the place, though, but he can't do it with all these people hovering around him. Why can't they let him be? _I start reading, and all of a sudden, the island turns into a damn talk show. People come down here, wanting to chat with me, and I can't leave the bed._ The admission of that startles him, but he does his best not to let it show on his face. "Goin' wonderful," he tells Sayid, biting into the last word a bit more sharply than he intends. He lifts the cover to the other man, showing the book.

Sayid doesn't look impressed. "It's a very small book."

And that, Sawyer can tell, is a joke, not an actual insult of today's reading. He doesn't take offense. If nothing else, the weight of the glasses across his nose and above his ears reminds him not to. Still, a quip springs to mind quickly: "Yeah, well, so's the airline rules against terrorists, I'll bet. Didn't stop you from reading them to figure out how you could get on and make us crash, huh?"

Disappointingly, Sayid does not take the bait. "No, those rules are much longer. The American government likes to hear itself talk." The Arab pauses. Sawyer sees hesitation. "And yes, I did read all the rules that your government installed after September eleventh. I wanted to make sure that I was acting properly."

"You got nothin' to worry about, Saladin."

Sayid's voice shows that he's impressed, as does the way his eyes widen. "Salah-ad-Din. It means 'righteousness of the faith.' And it's a title, not a common name – either of a person or a province. I did not think you would be aware of it in any form, however. You are more well-read than I suspected."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Jafar." Sawyer opens up his book, scanning a few lines. By now, Meg and Charles Wallace and the redheaded kid are on their way to Camazotz. He had to read this book in sixth grade, and reading it again, he remembers its plot, the pangs of jealousy he'd felt when the Murrays rescued their father. He should have been able to do the same for his own father.

The Iraqi hovers. He wants to chat further. Sawyer doesn't want to chat, but making a show of flipping a page, and then a next, elicits no response from the silent, still figure. "What?" he finally asks, dropping the book beside him and glancing up. That's when he sees the dog tags that are draped around the other fellow's neck, and he does his best to school his expression into something that approaches solemnity, not shock.

"I was just thinking – "

"Well, hell, congratulations."

" – that you have an odd accent."

"So do you."

_At least he's not asking about the dog-tags._ Sawyer squints at them for a moment, where they hang, trying to make out the numbers. There's a four to start them. He's sure of that. A four, and then an eight, and that's confirmation enough for him.

"It's Southern. Why?"

"No reason," Sayid responds. It's a lie. Sawyer knows it. He'd have used the same tone himself if asked the question, he suspects. Still, what with those dog-tags right there, he doesn't care, really. Let the other fellow lie. It's none of his business. "I was just wondering. Where in the South?" comes the follow-up question.

_Fine._ If Sayid isn't going to answer, he's not going to answer either. "Yeah, I'll bet you were," Sawyer replies with all due sarcasm. He stares at the little bits of metal some more, hoping the stare might escape notice but hardly expecting it to. He knows the Arab's sharper than that. "I didn't know you knew the South to care."

There's silence from the Arab again. Sawyer expects the usual question. The, 'Why do you care if I care?' line of inquiry, and he fakes a yawn to let Sayid know just how much he's looking forward to that line of inquiry, even moves to check the alarm clock positioned on the nearby table. It's strangely old-fashioned. A lot of stuff about this room is strange, a weird mix between modern and rustic. He'll have to ask about that once he can get out of the room.

He doesn't get it, though. Instead, Sayid's head tilts a little, and he glances down at the tags slung around his own neck, and then back at Sawyer. "You've seen these." Silence. "You've seen them, and you're curious about them. I'll tell you what. You tell me where you're from, and I'll tell you where I found these. Do we have a deal?"

Scoffing, Sawyer rolls his eyes. It only hits him just then that he was found out in his surveillance more easily than he had expected to be. "Tennessee. That's in between Arkansas and North Caro – "

"I know where it is. Knoxville."

_What the hell is going on here!_

Sawyer stares at Sayid for a moment, but can tell Sayid's not going to elaborate further on that. At least, not at first. "Where'd you get those dog-tags, Sayid? I've seen them before. I – don't know where. I thought I was hallucinating. I'm pretty sure I was. I just – " He's running off at the mouth, and he stops himself short, giving a weak grin.

It's a grin that, much to his relief, the Iraqi doesn't notice. The machines start beeping outside, and Sayid takes off for them. Whatever all that beeping is about, Sawyer doesn't know and doesn't care. It just happens every now and again, and whatever it is, he'll find out on his own, not by asking questions and having to give information in return.

When Sayid returns from whatever he was doing out there to make the beeping stop, he's chuckling over something, quietly. At least this time he decides to share: "Fifteen years later, I find someone with the same accent, one of a few dozen I find myself stranded on an island with. There's a moral in there somewhere. Tell me, do you know a Mr. Dana? Larry, if memory serves?"

"Where'd you get those dog-tags, Sayid?" Sawyer repeats himself. He's not going to let Sayid know anything before the other fellow starts to answer some of his questions. He has to find out where those things came from, or else whatever was in his hallucination – was just that, a hallucination. But there they are. Either he's dreamed them into existence, or something far stranger. God, his arm hurts, though. The pain medication is starting to wear off. He'll have to find out as much as he can as quickly as he can, before he starts to fade "Dana. _Barry_ Dana. Yeah, I know him," he mutters. He wants to see those dog-tags further, but all he can see now is Barry Dana, an obnoxious landmass even to him at seven.

_Don't worry, son. I'm from the _News-Sentinel_. My name's Mr. Dana. You can call me Barry. Tell me, Jimmy, how do you like it here at the Cottages? Would you like to stay here?_

A shake of his head, in response to Barry Dana. No, he didn't want to stay there. That didn't make any difference to anyone, though. Nobody cared about what he wanted. Not even him, by then.

"Why, Sayid? And where'd you get those dog-tags from?"

_I'm just going to do a little story on your parents' murder. It's been a few months. You're feelin' all right, aren't you? What's that you're writing? A letter, huh? Can I read it, pal? You don't mind if I call you Jimmy, do you?_

He forces his eyes open, still focused on those dog-tags. But still – this is a new question. What would a hackjob reporter, local Nashville riffraff, want with an Iraqi? He tries again, finding the Iraqi still silent. Time to see if he can provoke a response out of the guy: "How do you know him, Sayid? He interview you, what with your camel for a wife and your bedsheet for a hat? I bet that was a hell of an interview."

Still nothing. It's frustrating. Not even insults can get a response tonight. Is he starting to lose his knack for sharp remarks? That would be a hell of a thing, because without them – what is he? Nothing, really, as far as he can figure. Nothing but some stupid Southern kid who couldn't even save his parents. And if people start to know…

The Arab's lack of dialogue threatens to stretch even further. _Why doesn't he hurry up? It can't be _that_ bad, can it?_ Sawyer drops his attention from the dog-tags to the Iraqi's hands, with fingertips pressing so hard on his knuckles that the joints are starting to pale.

A wave of pain hits him. It's hit again. Jesus. Now that he's got something he wants to find out, of course all the pain medications start to wear off and he starts to go under again. _Saint-Doctor-Jackass needs to time his doses better._

And before him, he sees Barry Dana, smiling as genially as the fat man can do. It's a fake smile. Sawyer knew it was fake as a kid. He knows it's fake now. The man is wearing a press badge – fade in for a moment, and it's those dog-tags – fade out, back to the press badge with the number on it: 4815162342.

_Now, don't you want to tell me about your parents' murder? How did you feel when you found your parents dead?_

"Fuck off. How do you think I felt?" Sawyer may have said that aloud. He's not sure anymore of what he's really seeing and what he's dreaming. Maybe that's a hint. His last thought as he slips back to unconsciousness is, _I bet Ahab is staring. I would too._


	6. The Envoy

**VI: The Envoy**

Seven o'clock at night, from the way the shadows fall away from the sea, blending into a hazy gray on the sand beneath him. The sun is a bright red glow on the horizon, rays shining onto the water, making the surface of the ocean glittery, a dark, foreboding sort of glow that looks like Greek fire. _Is this what it looked like when Istanbul was besieged?_ Sayid wonders as he crosses from the hatch, making his way for the beach.

He still hasn't learned what the connection is between the reporter and the island's token annoyance, but he'll learn. He's sure of that. Better to figure it out in its own time rather than hunt for a connection, expecting something grand, and find only the weakest of links with his own situation. There will be time.

There always is time. If he'd had his way, they'd have already struck out in pairs or trios and traversed the whole of the island. They'd have a working map, not just the one that he pored over with Shannon. He'd have been given free rein for that hatch, to figure out just how it works. That will happen some day, though. For now, he ought to see if there's something useful that remains to be done. There generally is.

There will be nights that the security system remains unactivated, when proper guards have not been set up, and while they remain to be done, he won't sleep. Guard duty is a natural habit, and he'd rather do it than leave it to someone less sensible. Who knows what would happen if he left the duty up to the young men, Hurley and Charlie? They are good, but they are not that wise when it comes to things like this.

There is a fire still burning on the beach, small flames indicating there's just a person or two there, and he heads towards it, even as one of the newcomers to the beach rises to greet him.

–––

"What are you doing? Sit down!" And Ibrahim leveled his pistol on Barry Dana. "I will not tell you again, pig."

Barry Dana had started to get up, even with his hands bound. A flurry of activity about his rising had brought Sayid's attention away from the dusty road. He had been watching for traffic behind the reconnaissance vehicle; he glanced over his shoulder to see the journalist wobbling unsteadily further towards the cab of the truck, and balanced the rifle beside him. The Americans would not come after Mr. Dana in the meantime, for the minute or two it took him to deal with the situation.

Time to be unctuous, then, and to smile as kindly as he could do. "Mr. Dana," he began, "Please don't make this harder on yourself than it has to be. I would not want you to get unduly hurt. There is only a little way to the checkpoint, and then you will be given the ability to walk around." _In a cell of an all-but-abandoned jail built to house Iranians,_ he thought, but saw no reason to be so specific to the fellow. Instead, he added, "My friend Ibrahim, you will pardon. He does not speak English as well as I, so his capabilities are limited."

He figured Dana might appreciate the apology. After all, if he himself had to listen to Americans making efforts at speaking Arabic, he probably would have cringed at the aural assault, too. However, Dana looked anything but grateful for such specification.

"We can expedite matters here, by the way, before we get to the jail. All you need to do is to explain to us what you were doing – "

And the truck rattled to a stop, lurching on its frame as the driver put it into park. They were there, at the jail, already, and inwardly Sayid felt a pang of pity for the journalist. It was pity that he could not show, because that would be unwarranted as of yet. He had orders that countermanded such displays of humanity and, as much as he hated it, he would have to follow it. He could not run the risk of having Dana escape.

"There's nothin' that I can tell you. I don't know anything! If I knew somethin', d'you think I'd have gone into territory like this alone, been an idiot enough to blunder into you fellows?"

_Yes, I do._ "I do not know. But it is not in my position to judge such things. Please, if you'll accompany us."

The politeness stuck in his throat, and rang through his head as they ushered Dana to the holding station. The cells were dingy and dusty, and Dana was not the only one amongst them to cough and hack a bit at all the scents and feelings, even tastes, that attacked the senses. The air in the prison was the worst, thick and old and murky with the blood spilled here through the years, wrapping around fingers, arms, necks, like the ghosts of dead men grabbing at the current jailers to exact what revenge they could.

"I ain't gonna tell you anything."

"So you do know something. Please, tell us."

The journalist stared back at him through the cell door, hate in his eyes. Sayid wondered if he should feel the same for the journalist, or if he should show it even if he didn't feel it. He could not muster the loathing, though. All he felt was pity.

Dana's words snapped back sharply at him. "If I knew anything, ain't no way in hell I would tell you. You Iraqis are all alike. Terrorists, thieves, murderers."

–––

"How are you doing?" And the blond woman has drawn herself up to greet him first, the older couple following in her wake. There is a weird catch in her voice, and her eyes are wide. He wonders if he frightens her. What faces did he make, lost in thought? He decides it's best to aim for a conciliatory smile.

One familiar face. Make that three. He focuses on the one talking to him first: Shannon was soft-featured and young. This woman looks pinched, worn out, older than her years. Sayid can't hold it against her, though, for he's always thought he has as well. To her credit, she was not in favor of the crazy woman's actions, and he can't help but appreciate that.

"I am all right," he says, a little white lie for the sake of propriety, and then looks from her to the couple. "Rose, this is your husband?" It's momentarily strange, seeing an African-American woman and a white man, but they suit each other, and they're in love with one another, so he surpasses that thought rather swiftly. "Bernard?"

"Bernard," the older man confirms, extending a hand. He's dressed for survival, and Sayid notes the utilitarian nature of his clothing; pockets, a sun-hat, what must be mounds of bric-a-brac in the pockets. It gladdens him to see someone who is dressed with some sensibility. _At least I'm not the only one._

"It is good that you two have been reunited," he pronounces, wincing a bit at the formality of it. There has to be a better way to say that, but it's too late at night, and he's too deep in thought, to trouble himself with finding it out. At the wince, he spots the blond woman looking quizzically at him, but decides that it's best not to ask. "Forgive my manners. Sayid Jarrah," he tells them, and there are handshakes all around, a solemn exchange that strikes him as almost a ritual.

"You aren't American, Mr. Jarrah?"

"I am from Tikrit, Iraq. I am heading to Los Angeles – was headed to Los Angeles – to find someone." Someone that he has already lost part of on the island, when he lost Shannon, he suspects, but he won't trouble them with that. "I have never been to the United States before. I thought it would be an adventure, but," he allows a broad grin, "I confess I'd never expected this."

–––

"So why did you come to the Middle East anyway, Mr. Dana?"

It had been two weeks. They had spent two weeks dealing with the man, and nothing had worked the way they wanted it. All he'd done was blubber and lose a few teeth, and there was no benefit for them. His officers were getting impatient, and he'd gotten impatient for them as well. The man would talk now, or he would be in trouble when the man died without telling them what they wanted to know.

They had adopted a technique from the Soviets. Dana was allowed to sit down, but only on a stool placed in the center of the room, away from the walls. He was not allowed to sleep. The shifts of guards sprung upon him every time he started to shut his eyes or tilt over, and they had beaten the journalist until he woke again. _One of these days, they will drive him unconscious,_ Sayid suspected, _but not today._ Today, Sayid had come to the base to find that the man still had not cracked the way they wanted him to crack, and that the last fourteen days had been a waste of time. Today, he would find out what he wanted to know, or Dana would die from the effort.

Dana shifted on the stool, coughing. Sayid wondered what he'd come down with. It was not his place to help the man, however, so he didn't comment on it, only raised his eyebrows to encourage the journalist to an answer.

"I thought it'd be an adventure," Dana finally said, and Sayid could barely hold back laughter at that. "I thought that if I came here, I'd be a hero, you know? 'Barry Dana, journalist. The one man to break the Iraqi lines.' "

"You will be the one that is broken, Mr. Dana, not the Iraqi forces. Tell me, what did you know about the lines, that you knew it was safe to drive in when you did? Had your car not broken down, you might have gotten much further," he informed Dana, amused by the man's surprised expression. He could all but hear the thought: _How close I might have gotten._ It felt wrong, unhealthy, to relish that sort of awareness in the other man, but he allowed himself that moment. _It is better to savor such small details than to enjoy breaking fingers or slicing off ears and tongues._

"There was a communique that came through. A woman. A woman that told us. She's workin' with the rebel forces against your army."

Dread started in the pit of his stomach, spread out to his sides and his arms, worked its way down into his legs. He felt the coursing emotion before he realized specifically what it was, and he did not know why he felt it. This was bad. This was very bad. There was something desperately wrong here, and he needed to pinpoint it. "Tell me about her, Mr. Dana. Perhaps we will not kill you tonight after all."

He knew that was a lie. From the look on Dana's face, the sarcastic twist to the large man's mouth, he knew that the journalist did not believe the lie, either. This relieved him. He never wanted those lies to be believed. He only wanted to be honest.

At least the fellow would die an honest death. It would be a bad death, but it would be a death without illusions, and that was the only thing that he could give the man. It was more than he has given others, and the small act of courtesy pleased him. Perhaps he could be human, after all.

––

The sea stretches out beyond them, waves rolling to some continent he can't quite place, and doesn't really care about as much as he had expected to care. The conversation is good, the buzz of people about him encouraging him to feel a part of them. He can see Shannon's cross in the distance, a crudely fashioned cross. Strange, that they'd put that up and nothing else. Perhaps he'll carve a crescent into it when nobody is looking. However, he cannot do that now.

Now, it is not time to talk about such things. He listens to the newcomers' talk, hears them relate their trials, and shuts his eyes. Perhaps he can catch a few moments' sleep here by the fire, as the warmth of it hangs over him like a hazy and weightless blanket.

Now, it is the time to rest. He will get the answers he needs. He has always gotten them. He shuts his eyes, and he hears gunshots, sees people die: First, numerous soldiers, Americans and Iraqis both. The journalist, his body jerking under the firing squad. Ibrahim, with a gun to his head and his face contorted in rage that only a martyr can have. All of the people in the crash, the plane burning around them and himself doing what he can and wanting to do far more. Shannon's brother, mangled by the fallen equipment. Shannon herself, shot so recently and falling in his arms.

That is the order it has gone in for the past few nights. He is the last to be killed, and the first to die.


	7. Jeannie Needs a Shooter

**VII: Jeannie Needs a Shooter**

"Damn. We only have grape. You can't use grape in these, man. Grape sucks."

"Grape's all right."

"Not with alcohol. It tastes like Dimetapp."

"Well, you've got to have more Jell-O. I mean, you have a house." It was Mark's turn to look confused now, and James tried his best to explain further: "I mean, hell, it ain't like you grew up in some sort of damn children's home. Your folks have to have Jell-O sitting somewhere in the cabinets."

Their preparation for the party was not going well, James knew. It was supposed to start in a few hours and they had barely started on preparing the drinks. They should have just tried to sneak into the bar and get drunk. It would have been a hell of a lot easier, and Mark, being a Boswell, had money enough to cover the both of them and bribe the bartender into letting them drink underage.

Mark had wanted to host a party, though, and he had the spacious rec room and minibar in his basement with which to do it. This was the start of their last spring break. In a few months, they would be out of high school and on with the rest of their lives, so the boys had figured was probably the last chance they'd have to hold a hell of a party for a while. A lot of the others from class of '87 were going off to college, too, most to Tennessee State, but a few to other, better places. _Everyone except me, and I'd do better than half of these idiots,_ James thought, and then felt bad for thinking it. Not bad enough to feel apologetic, though. It was the truth.

Off for a search of the basement storage cabinets, which revealed nothing but more grape and something even more questionable: 'Buzzin' Blueberry,' the legend on the box said. James stared at it for a moment, taking in the panoply of garish neon decoration, before shaking his head and tossing the box back into the cabinet. "Even worse."

The box didn't land quite right, clipping an open Triscuit box and sending it spilling. Crackers poured out all over the cabinet, and the teenagers burst out laughing, hilarity fueled by the buzz of marijuana. "If your mom knew we were doin' this…" James warned, taking a drag off the last of his roach.

"She won't."

"Well, what are we going to do? We can't have a party without Jell-O shooters."

"Or dope," Mark pointed out. "Stop smokin' all that."

"Make me."

Mark squared his shoulders, looked at James with his best paternal expression. It didn't work. "You are using up the last of the marijuana. I order you to stop."

James made a show of savoring the little bit of weed that he still had, rolling the homemade joint around in his fingers, exhaling a puff of smoke directly in Mark's face, grinning as haughtily as he could. "Jell-O, man. Find it."

From upstairs, James could hear Mark's parents milling around. He leaned against the cabinet, listening, as Mark went in search of better flavors for their drinks. Mark's parents didn't care what was going on. _Hell,_ he figured, _they probably do more drugs than we'd ever dream of doing. Cocaine, probably._ He wouldn't have put it past the Boswells to do that. Mark's dad was a politician, and his mother – James didn't know what Mark's mother did, but he was sure that it was nothing important and everything social.

"Eureka! Orange."

"Congratulations, Mark. Have a toke. You deserve it." James' voice held the promise of a grand reward for a fellow high school stoner, and he passed the roach over. He avoided telling Mark it was almost gone.

–––

"So where are the shooters?"

God, she was gorgeous. Probably a few years older, redheaded, a great pair of legs. Twenty, maybe twenty-one. James squinted at her drunkenly, tried his best to focus. "Huh?" Eloquence was not his strong point tonight, but at least he knew enough to wince when he said it. "I mean, what – I – you want the Jell-O shooters? Right over there. Orange and lemon." He waved his hand to the orange- and yellow-filled paper cups, arrayed in order on the counter of the minibar.

_Licensed to Ill_ beat a thudding rhythm in his head, and he fought hard against it, feeling like he had to swim up-current in his head to process what she said. He rubbed a hand on his head, wiping away matted, sticky hair. The Beastie Boys needed to shut up so he could hear the girl talking.

"So you're Mark's friend. Jimmy."

He winced inwardly at that, the name hitting him as in as tinny and unpleasant a fashion as it always did. A phony grin spread across his face. "Yeah, Jimmy. You?"

"Gina. My friends call me Jeannie." The girl smiled at him, and he knew that smile. He had seen it on many other girls, but most of them weren't as hot as this one was. _A total fox,_ he thought, but he did his level best to pay attention to what she was saying. "I'm Deborah's friend."

Deborah was Mark's sister, in college over at Duke. _Whoa._ So he was talking to a college girl. Even better. He was suddenly aware of how young he was, though, and felt cripplingly self-conscious. Maybe this girl was even old enough to drink legally.

He decided he didn't care whether or not she was a legal alcoholic. "I bet you can't do a dozen of them in a row," he dared her, motioning towards the paper cups. Many of them still sat there, although they were going fast.

Jeannie's friendly grin tightened into a smirk, more mischievous, and her eyelids lowered to a flirtatious, sly look. He knew the signals. As they moved for the Jell-O shooters, he watched her walk turn into a sashay. She was into him. That was cool. Her voice dropped to a lower tone than it had been, all giggling gone. "What do I get if I win?"

All of a sudden, he knew exactly what to say. He drew breath to reply. He prayed that his voice wouldn't crack on the words.

–––

It was raining outside when they pulled in to the state park. Small dots of rain drizzled down onto him through the open side-window, lancing his arms and face with a barrage of light stings. James didn't know how they had gotten away from the party, but they had, somehow, and here he was driving the college girl to remote nowhere. Mark was back at the Boswell house, partying in the basement to _Slippery When Wet_, but the hell with him. On the grand list of high school accomplishments, making out with a college girl was far more important than hanging with friends at a party.

Jeannie had done ten of the shooters before she'd given up, and he was impressed by that. There weren't many girls that could hold their drinks. _Maybe you learn that at college._ In any case, this one was a keeper. He held a hand lightly around her waist for a moment before he got out, went around to the back of the hatchback to let down the seats. She climbed in back from the passenger seat and waited. He slammed the trunk shut, the bang of it making the compact car tremble only slightly.

By now the rain was swelling, lapping at the tires. James shielded his gaze from the rain with a hand and glanced down towards the surface of the creek, peering between willows and magnolias to study the runoff. It would overflow its banks soon and flood. Already he could see the sluices begin to form in the ground beneath his feet, small rivulets of water that plinked constantly with the raindrops.

Jeannie reached towards him to rap on the back windshield, and he flinched back to reality, smiling at her. "Yeah," he mouthed towards the rapidly fogging glass, a hand tracing lazily on its surface to clear a line as he went around to the driver's side door, pulled the seat up towards the steering wheel, and climbed in back with the girl.

She had her hands wrapped around herself, spaghetti-strapped shoulders hunched tightly and her palms rubbing at opposite arms to keep warm. "I've never been out here this late. It's pretty. State land?"

"Yeah." He wished he had the right tape to play. He didn't know what girls like Jeannie listened to. He sprawled out on the seat that he had let down, beckoned her to join him. The rain beat on the windows of the car, and it sounded louder than he had ever remembered hearing rainfall before. "You can't tell anyone about it."

Her mouth curved into an appreciative smile. She knew the importance of keeping this place a secret, and that was enough for him. Falling for her was a was a strange feeling, an uncomfortable new emotion, and not entirely pleasant. He fought hard to hold himself back, tried to stop himself from saying what he wanted to say.

Jeannie only smiled wider. "I know you do," she said, and leaned in towards him, pulling him close for a kiss.

Outside, the rain poured down, and the bank of the creek started to overflow. The woods were alive, and he and Jeannie were awake and drunk and probably stoned and he might even have been in love, if he had let himself.

–––

"You should go to college," she said after a while as she pulled on her jeans, propping herself up sleepily on an arm to stare at him. He yawned hugely, shaking his head, and lifted a hand to scrape his hair from his face. "If you went to college," she continued, ignoring his sign in the negative, "we could date. We could be together."

The words were out before he could take them back: "I don't want to be together."

She jumped back as if bitten by a snake, letting out a panicked little shriek. Her eyes grew large and luminous, and he saw tears well up in them. Her body was taut and tight, and he could feel the charge in the air shift from kinetic and electric to heavy, hanging, leaden. He shut his eyes, fought the wave of nausea that swept over him.

Her voice was harsh, rasping. "You little prick." She was right, and he felt the judgment hit. It was unpleasant, but he was used to it by now.

James knew explanation wouldn't do any good. He had to try. "It's not you, Jeannie. I just – I'm not good. With anyone. You've got nothing to do with it." He reached out a hand for her fingers, caught them, laced his own around them, tried to pull her down next to him.

She fought back, putting a good amount of strength into resisting, and jerked her hand free. "You _bastard_."

"Orphan," he corrected her. "Both parents. Not just one."

She kicked at him, hit a glancing blow in his ribs. He doubled over a little, gasping, but did his best not to show it. Why did it always end this way? It wasn't the screwing that was the problem. It was what happened afterwards. The girls never took it kindly, but he had thought Jeannie just might understand. He had been wrong, he realized, and the grief of that overtook him. _Why do I have to mess everything up?_

"I'm going. You can drown here for all I care. Go to hell." And she slammed the car door, leaving him lying there, alone in the back seat. He heard her feet, sloshing through the water, and saw a flash of red hair as she rounded the car to head out.

_Wait._ "Wait!" he repeated aloud, propping himself up. He banged on the window, realized that would do no good, and climbed out of the car after her. He felt the rain trail down around him, and realized only belatedly he was standing there in a pair of plaid boxers. The hell with it. He had to explain things to her. Just once, he had to make it right. "Jeannie, wait."

She turned back towards him, and he saw the pain on her face. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, to wipe away that look, but he could do nothing for her. She stared at him, prompted him to go on, and he couldn't find the words.

Finality was in her words. "That's what I thought."

"You need a ride home?" he asked lamely. All he needed was that drive, and he could explain himself. He knew he could. All he wanted was just those few minutes, that chance to make himself clear. He could tell her why he could never make a good boyfriend, why he could never go to college, all those things that she wanted, and maybe, hopefully, she could understand. "I'll give you a ride home," he repeated, trying to keep as much of the pleading sound from his voice as he could.

"I'll hitchhike." And with that, Jeannie was gone. He could hear the jake brake of a sixteen-wheeler screech and sputter as it pulled over to the side of the road to let the girl on. He hoped that she would be all right.

He got dressed and sat there in the car for a long while, his hands on the wheel, feeling the car rock with the flood. Maybe he could sail off in the car down the creek, borne adrift like a ship, cast to some far shore on the other side of Knoxville or on the other side of the world. Somewhere where they knew nothing about Jell-O shooters, college girls, and the way both together always went wrong for him. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as the car rocked, and he let his head drop to the circular surface of the wheel, pressing against it so hard he knew it would leave a mark.

The rain kept falling, merciless in its course, careless and ceaseless. He was jealous of its freedom. The bank of the river started to defocus, little bits of water trailing out of it and starting towards the car. Time to push the car out of harm's way before it got caught in the flood. He opened the door, feeling his Doc Martens splash down into a few solid inches of water. He set his hands to the hood of the car, felt his muscles tighten in preparation for the exertion. He closed his eyes and gave the hood of the car a shove, his hands starting to slip, wet.


	8. Hasten Down the Wind

**VIII: Hasten Down the Wind**

It sounded like an official declaration from the Ba'athists. It probably was, anyway. "From now on, you are not to use the name al-bu-Nasir. None of you. This has been passed down from Party headquarters. You're to address each other by first name and family name only."

The teacher motioned towards Sayid, a finger extending in indication. "For instance, he is Sayid Jarrah. He is not Sayid Jarrah al-bu-Nasir, no matter how many of you already know him by that name."

The new students shifted uncomfortably as the implications of this hit, and when he looked at them, Sayid saw concern. One of them was about to ask a question, lips opening, but then thought better of it. The same girl hadn't sung the national anthem. He'd noticed this, and he hoped that the class spy hadn't noticed as well.

A look over at Fahd assured him otherwise. The tall, athletic fellow was busy studying the Kurdish boys, not the new girl. He felt sorry for the Kurds. A report to the teacher would be issued, if not at the end of classes today, then at the end of mosque tomorrow, on Friday. The boys would be escorted out of class for a stern talking-to, and sometime within the next few weeks, their fathers would be tracked down in the streets and given a beating for their refusal to join the Ba'athists.

The new girl who hadn't sung the national anthem and wanted to ask the question was looking at him. He flinched, tried to smile at her. She was a daughter of one of the rich families, he figured, since she had gone to public school for only a short while. The private schools had been nationalized a few years ago, but what with the shutdown of the school in the northern end of the city, the new students had only just come to his school. Along with them, this girl, at whom he couldn't quite smile properly.

"We are going to study chemistry today," the teacher continued, and Sayid looked back towards the man, not caring what was being taught for once. Normally, he would have been interested, but today there were more important concerns, in the form of that girl. "We are going to do this by looking at the oil wells. Oil is important to our country, and it is important that, as sons and daughters of the revolution, you understand how it is acquired and processed."

Nobody feigned interest at that part. There had been a change in the way the teachers spoke – subtle, but still there. There was more political rhetoric, more emphasis on usefulness. It was as if the lessons were no longer taught for their education, but for their application in the new Iraq. Fahd was probably the only one who cared about the oil wells.

"If you will open up your texts to the chapter on oil processing – those that don't have texts, find someone to share with who does."

Sayid reached into his bookbag and took out a textbook, fingers skimming the embossing on the Party stamp of approval. He kept his book in good condition, in case someone wanted to share. Usually, nobody wanted to read along with him, though. Since Ibrahim was not in his science class, he was the smartest one here, and everyone knew it. The teacher's favorite, too. So they stayed away.

Not today, though. Today, that new girl was making her way towards him, having left the giggling clique of girls with whom she sat. He attempted to look like he didn't care, but from the way she looked at him, amused, he suspected that he failed miserably.

From behind him, there was the screech of a chair as Fahd leaned forward to stare at them, sitting so far on the edge of the seat that the back chair legs tipped in the air. Sayid leveled a sharp look at the taller boy, and deliberately placed the book down on the desk, letting it thunk loudly enough to send the attention of a few other students his way as well. Fahd would have to notice what he was doing.

He looked up towards where the new girl stood, waiting, and motioned her backwards. "Get your chair. You're welcome to read with me."

Fahd's chair legs resettled as he relaxed. _Apparently he just wanted to make sure I was acting properly,_ Sayid thought. _A good student and a good Party member._ He flipped through the pages, looking for the cheap drawing of an oil well, as the new girl went to retrieve her chair and sit next to him.

–––

"You are two years younger than I? _Nine_?" The girl's voice was scornful, and Sayid knew that he had said the wrong thing. "And you are already studying chemistry. You must be very smart, Sayid." He could hear a change in her words, though, a strange disrespect now entering her voice. He shouldn't have told her his age. He liked her, and now he had ruined that chance.

To make matters worse, there was no way to respond properly and respectfully to her statement. Anything he said would be bragging. So he just shrugged, smiling, and replied, "I'm sure you're very smart as well, Noor. You studied in private schools for years. I'm sorry our public schools are so slow in comparison."

"Sayid, how many times must I tell you to call me Nadia?" He didn't reply. "Your school is all right." The girl leaned against the side of the school building, her hands stuck in her jacket, her long dress waving with the breeze. "In the private school, though, we would study about trees and mountains. In your school and the one in North Tikrit, we've studied about oil wells and airplanes. It's a different…" She trailed off, not finding the word readily available.

"Emphasis," he piped up, using the foreign word instead of proper Arabic. It occurred to him moments later that he shouldn't have said that. He hadn't been trying to seem smart, but it would surely look that way to the girl.

True to his suspicions, her tone seemed less appreciative than he had wanted. "Emphasis, yes." She inched away from him where they leaned against the wall, and studied a group of their classmates that had formed an impromptu cricket match. Fahd had just made a hit, and was loping around lazily, busy scoring runs while smaller, stockier children scrabbled after him. "I like Fahd," the girl said suddenly, looking at him as if to gauge his reaction.

He felt sick. "Fahd!" he exclaimed, more shocked than he'd wanted to sound. "Fahd is the class informant, Nadia. He will tell on you if you do anything wrong. You can't like him. That's impossible!"

Nadia shook her head, a quicksilver grin flashing across her face. "I do not like Fahd," she assured him. "I know he's the informant. But I also know that he's not a nice person. I could never be friends with him, Little Sayid."

He bristled at the nickname, but did his best not to show it. He had called Nadia 'Noor' a few too many times to expect her not to call him something terrible.

As Fahd ended his runs, Sayid glanced over at the game. His classmates were starting to move back for the class building, done with their exercise period. He turned to look for the door and felt hands on his jacket, long and slender fingers that clutched on his shoulders through the thick material and shoved at him. He reached out a hand to brace himself against the classroom building and missed, landing ingloriously in the muddy splotch within the thin strip of grass.

He could hear Nadia laughing, and he smiled as well. _I must look like a fool,_ he thought, and he started to pick himself up, grinning back at Nadia, feeling stung but not minding the sting too much. "Why did you do that?"

The girl's voice was merry. "Because you let me."

He grinned wider, raising a hand to shuck some of the mud from his face and hair. The others were starting to close in, though, and he froze when he heard their laughter start as well. The sound made him feel a bright bolt of sudden hatred for what Nadia had done. He looked through the crowd and saw Fahd looking at him. Fahd was laughing the loudest of anyone.

At least Nadia waited for him to clean himself off, though. Even Fahd had gone in, after more time gawking than Sayid had thought possible with the teachers watching. Nadia and he were the last to go in, and she scrubbed at the edge of his jacket quickly and a bit roughly, looking oddly like a washerwoman for a Jazeem daughter.

"I'm sorry, Little Sayid." Nadia's voice was apologetic. "It was just – you looked so funny, with all that mud on you, and you didn't expect it at all, and – " Apology gave way to laughter, and he felt himself join in, too. " – oh, you looked _awful_!" She let his jacket drop, picked up her skirts to scale a few steps towards the school door. "We'd better hurry. I have music lessons and you have – "

"Algebraic equations."

She stared. She was impressed, he could tell, but she also seemed somehow frightened by this new information. "You're in algebraic equations?"

Once more, he could not give her a proper answer. Anything he could say would be bragging. He didn't have to, though, for as she stood there on the step, the door opened, just a few inches shy of hitting her. Both of them looked towards the door to see Fahd standing over them, looking proud at his opportunity to scold them. _I thought I was the teachers' favorite. Why is Fahd delivering messages for them?_

"Headmaster says to come inside, or you'll receive demerits. Both of you."

He wanted to say more to Nadia. He wanted to be friends with her. But Fahd stood there, gazing down at them with the look of an imam, and Nadia ducked her head away from Fahd's eyes, trying her best not to confront him. She ducked under the arm of the class spy and moved for the hallway beyond, and Sayid followed quickly on her heels, feeling Fahd's smirk beaming at him all the way to his mathematics class.


	9. Poor Poor Pitiful Me

**IX: Poor Poor Pitiful Me**

Do the smart thing: Lie there in the daylight with your eyes barely open, listen to the ticking in the next room. If they don't know you're not asleep, they stop talking to you after a while. The ticking is almost like a second heartbeat by now, and Sawyer's learned to count the hours by each time it stops and the beeping starts. He needs fresh air, sunlight, a girl, some beer, _something_. He's got none of that, but he's got a hell of a puzzle to figure out.

For starters, who the hell lived down here anyway? The guy liked to read weird books, and from what Sawyer can tell of the record collection, he listened to stuff Sawyer's younger aunts and uncles might have found interesting. Hippie music. The stuff that he was too young to listen to when a kid, and too old to find fashionably retro as an adult. The music that he thought he'd heard on the trail. It's as real as the dog-tags. He knows that now.

Secondly, did the poor dumb bastard that lived here wear those dog-tags? Next time the Arab gets a shift doing whatever they do to make the beeping stop, Sawyer will ask him. For now, all he can do is mimic a smile at Chewie's wife, eat whatever that weird Korean crap she feeds him is, and listen to her talk in halting but oddly musical English.

Maybe he'll ask her to teach him a few curse words in Korean. A knowledge of curse words is all anyone needs to communicate. A bunch of migrant Mexicans taught him that much. He doesn't know if Sun (he still can't believe the name) knows any, though. From the looks of her, she's never let one slip.

In any case, he has to find the spot where he saw those dog-tags, in his vision. Maybe there's more there. He'll do it, too. He's been lying here, doing nothing, for way too long. Time to make himself useful, even if it's a use only he can appreciate.

"Hey!" His voice sounds sharp, demanding, even to him. He props himself up in bed, waving a hand like he's casting around for something in the dark. It attracts the foreign woman's attention, and she heads over to him. "Got a favor to ask of you."

Her eyes widen. She doesn't bother asking him what the favor is. He's noticed that she's one of those girls that won't talk if they don't have to. If only all the women on the island were like that – especially Rambina.

"I want you to go to my stuff, wherever you guys put it when we took off on the raft, and I want you to go find my cigarettes. I need a smoke." He pauses, and adds, "Thanks," his voice strained and suddenly, uncomfortably dry.

"You can't smoke down here. Especially not in your condition." From the tone of the woman's voice, it's as simple as that.

Now he's got to persuade her otherwise. He licks his lips, swallows, tries to moisten his mouth so he can talk properly. "Look – Sun, Sunshine – I need a cigarette. I've been down here for three damn days without a cigarette." He widens his eyes, turns his lips down into his best pitiful frown, trying his best to gull her into getting the cigs.

Nothing. He blinks, shakes his head, drops the act. Time to try again. "Sorry." A small smile, or at least he tries for one. "I need cigarettes, though. I mean, I haven't had a chance to smoke since I got down here. Health hazards, right? That's what Jack says." He laces his tone with as much resentment as he can do on the last phrase, then shrugs, going casual. "But he'd know best, right? I mean, he's the one with all the medical experience around here. And anyway, look, you just did whatever you do to make that beeping stop. You don't have to hang around here for, what, five hours?" He knows it's six.

"Six," she confirms.

He feigns surprise. "Right, six. In any case, you don't have to be here. But since the doc said I can't smoke, well, I guess he knows best, huh? Ain't nobody else around here that knows enough to say otherwise."

_There._ He's got it. The woman draws herself away from him, the look on her face thoughtful. "I'm not sure about that,"she replies, sounding like an admission. He stares at her, careful, inspecting. "Because I know you'll keep nagging at me until I do this, I will get you one cigarette. That is all. Do you understand?" From the sound of her, she's not about to brook an argument.

He's not about to argue. He doesn't need to. A few more exchanges, a handshake to seal the deal, her hand rough from gardening, and she's on her way. He files that away, remembering a few weeks ago. Eucalyptus for the blonde chick. Maybe she _does_ know better after all. He'll figure that out later. She's gone for his tent, to find cigarettes – one, at least – and he's got to get out of here while he's got the chance.

Have they moved his stuff? He supposes not. They'd have told him if they'd have done something with it, probably, thinking they'd have hell to pay. Still, it's probably best to split the difference. Wherever the hell he is, he figures it's at least a four-minute walk to the beach, from the way the trails looked so overgrown and forested. Four minutes there, four minutes back. Eight minutes, plus two to get the stuff. Ten minutes, if he pushes it.

He aims to be gone from wherever the hell he is within five.

_One_, and he's pushing himself off the bed with a grunt of effort. There's some weird tech about the place, despite the retro feel. Maybe there's hidden cameras. He raises a middle finger in the air just in case. If anyone's watching him on the cameras, it'll be Jack. That'll be something good for him to watch.

Then shuffle, reach out for the spare chair that still hangs out in the room, the bookcase, the pole lamp. Anything to keep upright, and he's stumbling out of the room, feeling like nothing but a drunk. It's embarrassing, but he's thankful there's no one around to see what he looks like, dragging himself along like he's punch-drunk after a bar fight. _Pathetic,_ he thinks.

Are his legs about to give already? That would be funny for everyone but him. Here he's trying to get out of here and he can't even make it out of the room. It suits the way things have gone, though. Constant fuck-ups.

He spins away from the pole lamp like he'd just dealt it a good punch, and somehow manages to propel himself into the next room. A kitchen, with a ping-pong table. That strikes him as incongruous, and he lets out a laugh. There's a real kitchen here, and he is surprised to see it. Talk about conveniences. How long have they been living here without these sorts of creature comforts? That suit against Oceanic he'd suggested to Rambina just had a few more zeroes added onto the end of it.

_Two._ He moves from the kitchen to a circular room beyond, and stares in shock at what he sees there. It freezes him momentarily, but who _wouldn't_ it freeze? Only someone with ice-water already in their veins and a determination not to be surprised.

It's lit up like Christmas, all over the room, looking glittery. He can see that much out of his peripheral vision, and he lifts his gaze to the massive, old-fashioned computer – one that the Boswells had; he recognizes it, or close enough – the tape-reel machines behind it, stuff that not even he's old enough to have used in school.

_Jesus Christ, it's as if _I Love the '70s_ and _2001: A Space Odyssey_ had a baby. There's even a goddamn lava lamp in the kitchen._ It takes him a few moments to adjust to his new surrounding, feeling his knees buckle under him all the while and willing them to lock for at least a few moments.

Tick. Tick. _Three._ And he stands there and stares, momentarily rapt at what he's seeing. He cranes his neck around, looking above the doorway from which he's come, and there's a counter there, a flip-chart that looks like the waitress-signal system that they used to use at the diner where he used to wash dishes as a teenager.

He moves over to the computer, curious about it, before he thinks better of it. _No. Better not mess with it. Leave it to people who know what they're doing._ It nags at him, but he knows his place, and that's sure as hell not behind a computer monitor, pounding away on a keyboard. He'd sooner shoot the computer than deal with it, and, oddly enough, it looks like someone already has.

Strange. What went on down here? He probably missed a firefight. Right. That would be perfect, to be wandering through the jungle like some explorer in some hokey safari movie, while all the while the Showdown at the O.K. Corral is happening without him.

He can't try and figure this out, though. He has to get to where he saw those dogtags. If Sayid can't give him an answer on them, he'll find out for himself. If only he didn't feel like he had to throw up already, just from the exertion of walking a few steps. He has to sit down. He plops in a couch, stares at the back of that computer, at the controls blinking and flashing incessantly behind the old-fashioned computer tower.

If anyone were watching, he wouldn't do this, but as it is, he can afford it. He dry-retches, puts his head in his hands, lets the bout of nausea pass, feeling his shoulders shake. He has to get out of here, though. Besides, maybe it's this place that's making him sick. If it's making him have visions that turn out to be true, it can make him get sick.

_It's not just pathetic. It's downright pitiful._

He's got to keep moving. He doesn't have long before Sun comes back. He picks himself off the couch, drags himself to the corridor. It looks like some sort of World War Two bunker out here, all metal and bolts and pipes. Maybe this thing was built for a Dresden bombing. He wouldn't have put it past – whoever made it – to do that, either. Things are so strange here on the island that it makes perfect sense that there should be a bunker here built to withstand World War Three.

_Four._

_Forty two. Four. Eight. I left my wife with forty-eight children in shoddy conditions and thought it was right, right, right in the middle of a bomb explosion. Everyone was killed and I was left, left, left my wife…_

He remembers the ROTC guys before they were shipped off to last-ditch efforts. He was four or five, and these kids were still being shipped over there, collegiate and clean-shaven and utterly stupid, and they returned home crazy as shithouse rats. They chanted things like that, and he chants it now as he makes his way down the corridor. Every inch of it looks different, but dull and metal and still utterly alike.

And then he starts running, because it's close to five, and he has to make it out of there. The steps are slippery and treacherous, and he collapses on one, but up, up, up into God knows where, and through the open door, and _Oh my God, it's night._

It was day back on the bed, and he can feel the seconds ticking down, and his chest grows tight and his fists grow tighter, and he's determined to stay awake and see the count through. Sun's not back yet. He can take the chance. He hasn't shouted aloud in a while, and as he gathers the energy for it, it's a terrific feeling, a sudden release that he had missed, starting somewhere deep down within him and filling his lungs and his head. The potential of the shout to come is almost intoxicating.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU BASTARDS WANT?"

His voice echoes amongst the trees, hits the metal of the hatch and reverberates, a sickening echo. It doesn't help his queasiness any, to be sure, but it feels good to get it out, to hear his voice again as something more than pleading and prying.

"LET'S GO, YOU SONS OF BITCHES. YOU WANT TO MESS WITH US? WELL, COME ON!"

His voice fails, then, and his knees give. His head spins, and he drops, his hands clutching at the dirt to try and thrust himself upright again, get his legs back under him and keep him steady. He can't do it, though. His legs are jelly.

Before him in the dirt, something glints. Metal. The dog-tags, maybe. He squints at them for a moment, trying to see if they're the same ones that he'd seen twice already. He doesn't get the chance. The click of a gun tells him he had better pay attention to what's going on around him, and he looks up.


	10. Networking

**X: Networking**

Mornings on the island are warm enough to feel like those of an Iraqi summer. Every time he awakens, Sayid expects the _shamal_ winds to whip across their settlements, burning the ground beneath and making anyone bunking outside wake up with a mouthful of dust. However, he spits out no dust. Instead, he wakes on the beach in decidedly better conditions, which never fails to startle him. What's more: He awakes after dawn and, although he hadn't planned on offering prayers and indeed hasn't done it since they arrived on the island, he feels a twinge of regret for missing the opportunity, at the very least.

The fire has gone out overnight, and there appears to be no one around. The new people must have taken off for parts unknown. He doesn't blame them. If he were forced to befriend people he hardly knew, he supposes, he might be a bit wary of chatting with them. Then again, less than two months ago, he hardly knew the people he currently considers his friends.

He yawns and stretches, allowing himself the luxury of lying there for a few moments while his senses return. Above him, the clouds drift about, wandering in different directions. _Cumuli,_ he thinks, _with no strati blanketing them. That means rain is unlikely._ The clouds are so different here. Over Iraq, what few clouds show are much higher and thinner, the dryness of the land beyond the alluvial plains befitting the lack of moisture above. _For all the rain here,_ he thinks, doing his best to remember the single meteorology course that he took, _the clouds should be different. They should be heavier and grayer, and there should be more wind. There hasn't been yet._ He can feel his face contort into a confused look, but the sky offers no reaction to his confusion.

Eventually, he'll have to get up. He wants nothing more than to lie there and soak in the sunlight, to be alone and unmoving, a bulwark against any activity in the area, but he has to make himself useful sooner rather than later. He rolls over onto his side and pushes himself up, and as he does he feels something fall from his neck.

The chain that had held the dog-tags is broken, and lies in the sand like the smallest of snakes, or perhaps a ribbon. Sayid lifts it up, eyes scanning over it to its end, and nothing is dangling, chiming, at the bottom. The tags have been taken. He hadn't felt it. He must have been more tired than he thought, to have fallen asleep so heavily. A simple conversation with Sawyer can exhaust anyone, after all. Maybe that was it.

He tucks the chain in his pocket, shaking his head. Whoever wanted it must have wanted it for a reason, and if they want it, they can have it. He thought it was interesting, and worth studying, but if someone's more invested in the opportunity, he won't begrudge them it.

He climbs to his feet, studying the rest of the beach. Nobody's come down here yet, and from how low the sun is on the horizon, he suspects most of them are still sleeping. The tide has come in and washed away whatever footprints were below them on the beach. He'd give anything for a tidal atlas to figure out where they are.

Someone should know about that sort of thing, though. He considers for only a moment before hitting on the most likely source: Jin. The Korean can fish, and extremely well. He must know something about the way the tides move on this island. If that was coupled with his own scientific capabilities, Sayid realizes, they could figure out where they are. _Thank God he came back safe._

He starts to stride towards the beach camp when he sees a lanky figure moving towards him. "Sayid!" A voice hails him, and he looks up, raises a hand in greeting, then moves it to shade his eyes from the sparkling dawn sunlight. The figure materializes: Close-cropped hair, tall, moving with a natural intensity. It's easy to recognize Jack. "Sayid, we have a problem." That's not just intensity in Jack's voice. It's anger, threaded with some sort of faint concern.

"How can I help, Jack?" He feels so solicitous around the doctor, but what else is he supposed to say? He studies the tense walk, the way the brows are drawn together in anger. _He's clearly had a wonderful start to his day,_ Sayid thinks, but has the presence of mind to avoid informing Jack of the obvious dry observation.

"Sawyer's gone. Sun stepped out of the hatch for a few minutes – I still don't know why, but I'll bet he put her up to it; mark my words – and when she got back, the door to the hatch was open, and he had disappeared. She said the ground was trampled like there had been a fight of some sort. In any case, he's gone." Jack doesn't sound too disappointed at that. Sayid can understand why.

Nonetheless, does the disappearance have anything to do with the fact that the dog-tags had been taken? Sayid sees no reason to bring this up to Jack. He does, however, prepare to play the role of a vizier again, pausing and running his words through his head once before he speaks. "Is anyone else missing, or simply Sawyer?"

Jack stares, and then shakes his head slowly, a quizzical expression hanging on his face. "No one, as far as I know. Why?"

Sayid explains as diplomatically as he can do: "If anyone else is missing, then we know someone took Sawyer. If nobody else is missing, he either went off on his own or was taken. Given his condition, it's doubtful he went off on his own. So if we could do a head-count, that would be useful," he advises Jack, trying his best not to sound too much in charge. There's no need to stir things up.

Jack realizes the logic of this, and that's a relief. "All right," the taller man declares, sounding like he has come to an important decision. "I'll do the head-count."

That suits Sayid fine. He wouldn't want the task of waking people out of their night's reverie just to make sure they're there. "Thank you," he tells Jack plainly and then hangs a sharp left away from the man, digging his hands into his pockets and starting to walk. "And I will investigate the hatch," he tosses over his shoulder without looking back.

A few moments later, he finds himself at the hatch. There looks to have been a bit of a commotion. True to Sun's words via Jack, the grass is trampled and torn up, and the hatch door lies ajar, the stairs leading from it to the depths beyond. At least there's no blood, and he takes that as a positive sign.

He turns his attention to the door, then, pulling it further open to study it. 'QUARANTINE,' it reads on the inside, but he concentrates on something stranger. There's no handle on the inside, so no way to get out. The door must have been opened for Sun and Sawyer – and if Sun is safe, then taking Sawyer was planned, and the takers had lain in wait. But by whom was this planned and executed? And why?

He backs off, shaking his head slowly, letting the door shut. Not much to see here. Whatever happened, it was done cleanly, and he's not going to figure out anything further than that, not in these conditions. There's nothing on the ground, from what he can tell, but he may as well take a second glance down at the ground to make sure of that. The dawn light makes everything shiny, but as he gives the place a second once-over, he spots something on the ground: A little bit of metal, glinting in the breaking light. He leans down to pick it up, and turns it over in his hand, studying it. It's one of the dog-tags, and he recognizes the numbers: They're the ones entered into the hatch computer.

Whoever has the rest must have grabbed Sawyer. He should have suspected something was wrong with those tags. He should have known. He slides the trinket into his pants pocket and starts to back away. The hatch can't be left unattended, though. He's surprised that they've left it alone for so long, and swings the door open again to go down to the computer again. Perhaps there's a further clue contained upon the computer.

_Hello,_ is written on the screen.

He instantly is suspicious. Someone is waiting on the other end of that line, and he won't play into their hands. Writing back would be a bad thing. That would let the strangers gain control of the conversation. Though every fiber of him wants to write back, he has too much self-restraint to do so. So he sits and waits, expecting something else, feeling like he knows human nature well enough to be certain it will come.

He's right. It only takes a few moments before there is a query, a longer one this time. Even though the words are written in Roman characters, he recognizes them instantly, and nearly jumps out of the chair at the sight: _Al salaam a'alaykum_.


	11. The Indifference of Heaven

**XI: The Indifference of Heaven**

It was autumn now, and the summer homes had all been deserted, leaving only a few reminders like archaeological artifacts from the neo-yuppie culture. A tin pie plate had been tossed by the side of the road, full of murky water from the last rainfall. One shoe, a Nike, laces untied, was right where she used to cross the dirt path to go down to the lake as a child, the sneaker's canvas-and-vinyl construction permanently in shadow from the arching trees overhead. The trees rustled with life, now and then trembling with bird song or chipmunk chatter.

At the lake, the boats were tied up, immobile for the winter, some with tarps draped over them to shield them from the harsh weather in the months to come. The woman never understood the point of the boats. The people that came upstate were from Long Island, from places with names like Water Mill, Fire Island, Bayport. She thought that they would have wanted to do something other than rev up the motorboats when they came upstate, but that seemed to be their primary passion upon getting away from an island. She could never understand that.

The boaters weren't that bad, though. The worst were the ATVers. They would race their vehicles through the woods, careless about what was state land and what was personal property, knocking down branches of bushes they passed, cutting up the ground beneath. Last year, one of them had died when he ran straight into a tree. The satisfaction that the tragedy brought within her was odd, but all she could think was, _He deserved it._

Some months were better than others, though, and this stretch in early September, when the ATVers and tourists in their fancy homes had disappeared, and hunting season had not yet started, let alone the Christmas vacationers – this was a nice few weeks. She could relax for once, be left alone with just her dog and her books. She liked that. Maybe she would even go to the corner store, an all-but-dilapidated shack that despite her reference sat ten miles down the road in an equally dilapidated town. She didn't have to, though. She was fine by herself.

In a place like this, even the most menial tasks seemed more like a duty, something she was meant to do and bound to do, than a chore from which she had to devise ways to escape. That was a different feeling for her. She expected to hate it. She had hated it when she had to write papers and conduct evaluations on spec and deadline, so she had expected to hate cleaning as well. Now that she had nobody making her do things to their limits and their timeframes, even manual labor became her own thing, and she claimed it, taking it in, making it a part of her, creating a purpose for it that she had never found before. Something in her stayed removed, though. It always did.

She was surprised: The cleaning she had done earlier was fun, with the sharp, astringent scent of the cleaner and the glass warm to the touch from the sunlight beaming down upon it. She had never done that before when left to her own devices. When she cleaned the glass, she watched the dogs outside, circling around one another, the mismatched pair of Jack Russell and Golden Retriever running around, the terrier making sharp turns, darting around the retriever's loping gait, through the spotted legs to emerge again, challenging the bigger dog with an impish growl. She had doled out their food and left them to their own devices, not bothering to lock the door to her house as she headed up the road to see if the tourists had gone. They clearly had.

The lake diverted itself into a creek that ran past her and into the woods, bubbling and clear, and she leaned down to stare at herself in it, creating her own impressions out of the gray-brown mottled shadows that gazed back. Over the past few months, she had been intermittently surprised as her face had started to change on her, already turned from young adult to proper adult, and now starting to lose the tightness it had maintained thus far through her twenties.

Even her skin was beginning to betray her. She wanted to molt out of it, to have her youth visibly restored like Elizabeth Bathory after a bath in blood, or like Osiris regenerated. There were creams for it, but she was not that vain. It was not her looks that bothered her, so much as the wasted potential. She had intended far more public things than to be living like Thoreau, and she was nearly thirty, and had done none of her intentions.

She would do them, she determined, watching her face in the water shift and sway, the altered look of it pleasing her somehow. She had made good on nothing so far, and now she would. The first thing to do was to get in her car and drive, and she made plans to do that. She had nothing to worry about here. What books she would otherwise have wanted amongst the plethora were cheap and easily replaced. The dogs would find some way out of their predicament, after a few days cooped up in the house with no food and water. She would be well on her way to finding a solution to her own troubles, too, and hopefully would be as far as she could from home.

She started back to the house, thinking, _Pay attention. This is the last time you'll see it. Give the dogs strong hugs when you go in. They'll have run away within a few days, so they need something to remember you by._ She would make sure to notice the details.


	12. Seminole Bingo

**XII: Seminole Bingo**

The Greyhound wound through the Florida back roads like a hummingbird in search of Gulf Coast nectar, wheels rattling along the road and taking some of the grace away from the metaphor. The forests around the bus were a darker green than he had ever seen before, and Sawyer thought, _So this is what a subtropical state looks like._ The lushness of the area made his head swim, as if he had suddenly found himself drowning in leaves.

Ever since the decrepit old lady had gotten off for her retirement home at Naples, they had been heading steadily south, and as the afternoon gave way to evening, the shadows stretched out further to their left, the setting sun gleaming in on the right, beyond the water. If he turned away from the aisle and looked outwards, he could see a bright orange ball on the horizon, looking nothing like the sunlight he was used to. Florida made things hazy somehow, and while it was liberating, it came dangerously close to overpowering him whenever he tried to touch it.

For now, though, cocooned within the Greyhound, he could watch his surroundings and did not need to interact, so he sat there, quiet and observant, fingers splayed on the briefcase next to him. He had kept a careful watch on it all this way, even keeping his cigarettes in its front pocket. The need to smoke made him be an even more dedicated steward for its safekeeping, and every time he moved to extract a cigarette and light it up, he was reminded of his task. He had gotten away with seven cigarettes on the bus since Pensacola, and was almost to the end of an eighth.

When the bus got to Everglades City, they would be waiting for him. Some drunk down-and-out businessman and his hideous hooker wife, drooling all over each other, from the description he had got. He steeled himself to be disgusted by their affection, worked over every possible conversation in his head so he wouldn't say the wrong thing. The last thing he wanted was for the word 'whore' to slip out and cost him not only his share of the money he would get from them, but probably the ability to breathe and have a heartbeat as well.

"Hey, kid. You know you're not supposed to smoke back there. New rules."

The bus driver's voice came over the PA system. He didn't sound too invested in the words, though, merely doing his job, and Sawyer saw no reason to oblige. He simply shifted the smoke to his free hand, so that the only thing that could be seen was the intermittent curls of smoke, hiding the glowing ember behind the cloth back of the seat in front of him.

"Thanks for putting it out."

He hadn't, but he tossed out a, "You're welcome," all the same.

_It's funny,_ Sawyer reflected, _Each job gets easier, no matter how much it asks of you. No matter how much you compromise yourself to do it, it gets easier and easier to do._ A year ago, the first one had been the worst, but ever since then, he had felt his conscience – if he'd even had one to start with – begin to slip away, his scruples begin to soften from their already malleable state. At least he could live off this, and even if he had to look at himself in the mirror sideways, he could still see himself for what he knew he was.

As the minutes ticked down and the bus sped along through over-lush green, he felt the mask slip on. It was hard to define what it was, and he couldn't really say what usually changed about his looks, but it altered, hardened. His face tightened and framed itself as if it were turning to wire, a cage in which he could lock his real self and drape his persona over it like an opaque veil. That was the look with which he would greet the people for whom he'd traveled all this way.

–––

"So, why are y'all doin' this?"

Nothing. Silence in the pitch-blackness, the other just as obstinate as he might have been on the other end of things. He wavers, feeling like he might lose his lunch of strange Korean food, but manages to keep it in for the moment.

Trying to winch out an answer is frustrating, though. Given a choice, he would have preferred to be the one on the receiving end of the questions. That part is simple: Just refuse to answer. It's tougher to try and invoke an answer, and he isn't used to that, particularly in situations like this, where he can't con the answer out of people.

Sawyer shakes his head and sighs, exasperated. God, he needs a cigarette. _Why couldn't they have waited until Sun got back with the smokes?_ he wonders, knowing that to be a perfectly rhetorical question. His hands have gone clammy, and he presses them together, fingertips taut against one another.

"Look, whatever you want – you want to be talkin' with someone else. I ain't your guy. I don't give a damn about what happens to them." He pauses there, annoyed with himself for saying that. It isn't as true as he wants to believe. Still, he has to press on, and he does. "Tell you what, though. I'll get up and walk away from here, and you can have me deliver a message to my compadres. Deal?"

"You're not in a position to walk anywhere yet, yanno." It's the voice of the Lucky Charms leprechaun, swooping through the words. The voice elaborates: "You can't move more than five steps on your own, man."

_Thanks for the reminder._ He glares in the darkness, slowly starting to rise. He makes it to one leg, plants his boot down, and then bobs dizzily around the stable leg before parking himself on the ground again. "I could run a marathon right now, if I wanted to."

"No, you couldn't. You won't be walkin' well for a few more days yet." The other man's voice is as casual as his own. The finality of that hits Sawyer even more than the previous statement, and he sighs. He's starting to see double now, hallucinating figures in the darkness that fit the voice. He wishes he could get a good glimpse at the guy.

"So why take me?" Sawyer counters, trying for logic now that all else has failed. "Why take me, if I can't deliver whatever message you want delivered because I can't walk, like some sort of crippled idiot? What good am I?" It occurs to him that the last question could have probably a dozen answers and two dozen meanings, but he chooses not to elaborate.

"Ah, you look like you need a cigarette. Here you go."

And a pack is pulled from a pocket somewhere, extended towards him, and Sawyer shrugs and takes one, figuring he may as well not be picky on the brand. It's not worth getting caught trying to figure things out over. He stares at the smoke, rolling it around in his fingers a few times, as if he can test its composition and tell if it's laced with something just from feeling it. It's stupid, but he doesn't have much light to go by, with no fire, and it's the best he can do.

"If you were gonna be drugged, you would've been, man," the stranger informs him flatly, just barely on this side of eerily prescient. It's enough to make Sawyer look surprised, probably, for the stranger's voice warms as if trying to hold back laughter. "You're easier to read than you think. Rest now."

And now he's being told to go to settle down, like a child. Sawyer scowls bleakly at that, setting the cigarette in his mouth and reaching out for a lighter, beckoning in case it's not obvious. "Why take me? Answer the goddamn question," he mutters, then tenses.

Luckily, he does not need to worry, for the other man laughs it off, passing over the lighter. There's a weird quality to the laughter, something strange, almost manic in it, and that sets his teeth on edge. Not that he figured that anyone who would pull a gun on him, try to punch him out, and then wind up shaking his hand and asking him to walk off and chat – albeit with the gun still in plain sight – would be the most stable of individuals, but this is seriously bad. He can't plan for anything, with the element of utterly nuts thrown in there, and that doesn't help his nerves any.

"That shoulder of yours has to get healed right quick. You want it to be healed, don't you now?"

It's not much of an explanation. Still, what is he supposed to do besides nod and take a drag on the smoke?

–––

They had met just outside the Legion, Sawyer with his briefcase and the businessman and his hooker girlfriend. They were revolting, cheap drunks and little more, and he had to fight hard to rein in all the sarcastic comments that rose unbidden to his lips.

The businessman looked poor, though. His shirt quality was no good, roughly woven and without even the smallest trace of silk. He looked almost like a redheaded version of Charlie Chaplin, all shirtsleeves and unintentional high-water cuffs, and there was something pathetic about this whole situation that Sawyer hadn't liked from the start. He would go through with it, though. There was too much money riding on it.

"So I can get you that set of jewelry," he concluded, watching the businessman turn to the hooker girlfriend, and then watching the hooker girlfriend. "Real nice set, let me tell you." He kept his drawl as pronounced as possible. It worked better if they thought he was a dumb hick, to be sure. "All I need is a little money up front." He swung his briefcase slightly, idly, as he watched them, as if to connote that the meeting was so casual that even his arm couldn't stay still. "Not much, though, hear? And we need to make it quick. My brother says I can only get the stuff before the end of the week, or his boss will catch on, and, trust me, y'all don't want that."

He looked past them to the sign that rested atop the Legion Hall, trying to make out what it was saying. S----OLE -ING-, it proclaimed, minus most of its letters. He liked the idea, though. 'Sole-ing.' The act of being alone. He would have preferred that to trying to run a scam on the businessman, but the guy had already fallen for something else higher up the chain, and he had to maximize the profits as much as he could before the two caught on. _Always run the mark for as much money as you can, because people that stupid aren't easy to come by._

The businessman scratched at his nose, looked to his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked at Sawyer, and Sawyer saw something in her eyes that he didn't like. He didn't think he was particularly choosy, but the looks of her, the split ends and the pockmarks and the jowls, and that painful attempt at looking sexy – he wondered how she even managed to turn tricks. Were most guys really that desperate? He'd never had that problem.

"So, we got a deal, or ain't we?" he wondered aloud, attempting to breeze past this moment of discomfort. Time to smile at them and hope they bought it. The smile bent the bars of the wire cage that was his current capacity for expression, but didn't break it. "All we need to do is go over to the bank and withdraw some money, and that'll be fine."

The businessman considered for a moment and nodded. Of course he nodded. "If you're conning us, kid…"

Sawyer gauged the threat, eyes flicking away from the businessman: The hooker girlfriend's hand tensed on her boyfriend's arm, and she gave her boyfriend a shocked little look, shaking her head. The threat was real, or else she wouldn't have reacted in such a panicked fashion. They meant business.

Fortunately, so did he. "Tomorrow, then? Meet you at the Pollo Tropical in Everglades City. I've been wantin' to try one of those places since I hit Florida. Cool?"

It was cool.

The Pollo Tropical was expanding throughout Florida. More and more restaurants were opening, and the one in Everglades City had been open for a long while. It was as good as any other place in the city for their meeting, a Mexican-influenced restaurant that promised relative anonymity due to being a chain. People wouldn't remember him or the other two; he had made sure of that by picking a place like this.

It was harmless, too, this place, all bright colors and cheerfulness, not the place for anyone down-and-out, or a violent shootout, or any number of the elements that he was bringing in to the situation. Perhaps the disparity between the folks he was conning and the place in which he was conning them would keep bad things from happening.

The weight of the briefcase was heavy, weighing down his fingers. It held nothing in it beyond just the front money, and even that was not that much. It felt like it weighed a ton, though. It always did, the day of the deal. He suspected it was because he placed all his guilt for conning people inside that briefcase. The strangest thing was that, on each job, the weight of that guilt, if that was what it was, seemed to progressively lessen. He had less and less to worry about.

So why, when he entered the restaurant, did he feel dread crawl into him as he walked through the carpeted foyer and closed in on the waitress kiosk, where a relatively young female manager stood lecturing a younger waitress on the procedures for the cash register? He didn't know at first. And then it all became clear, with the manager's red hair and the name-tag that spelled out a single word: _Jeannie_.

"Jimmy!" she said with surprise, though the name lacked warmth. "Jimmy Ford. I remember you! I didn't expect to see you again, ever." Their eyes met, but Jeannie wasn't the only one looking at him.

Instead, two more pairs of eyes were instantly upon him, and he saw redheaded Chaplin tense. All of a sudden, the hooker didn't look like she wanted to bang him anymore. He didn't feel as relieved at that as he had hoped.

–––

The jungle around him seems as green as Florida as he awakes. Greener still, but in different colors. The lush darkness of the Everglades is replaced with more tropical variation, riotous colors everywhere that he looks. If you can get drunk on Florida landscapes, you can take an acid hit off this jungle. He lies there, staring at the panoply of colors, hearing some shuffling across the path that announces that the other fellow has awoken.

He opens his eyes and looks that way, although he's careful not to move his head noticeably at all. He spots a syringe, a rolled-up shirtsleeve, an arm that probably was muscular at one point but has since gone to seed, and he stares as the needle finds its spot on the other fellow's arm and slides in, hits home, goes all the way in, and the liquid in the syringe starts to flow into the other guy's bloodstream.

_A meth-head. Wonderful. If there's anyone you should go trekking through the jungle forests with, it's definitely a guy who's tweaking over speed. He looks like it, too. He acts like it. All jumpy nerves and stuttered speech._ He plays dead, though, lying there as still as he can and trying not to move a muscle at all.

"Make haste, now. We're gettin' out of here." Given last night's assurance that they're not moving, hearing the mercurial change of commands startles him more than he had expected it to. He rolls over from where he'd sacked out on the ground, his back aching and his shoulder sore, and groans, his eyes flicking open.

_Everyone keeps telling me to get moving and expecting me to walk everywhere. I wonder what would happen if I just laid here. Nothing saying that I have to get up and start walking._ If he wants to catch a few more seconds of sleep, nothing can stop him.

Nothing, that is, except for the sight of a pistol in the morning light. Sawyer rolls his eyes at it, but when it darts a bit closer to him, he starts to get up. Sort of. There are important questions that need to be asked first: "Listen, Bono, I thought your plan was to send me back to the camp sooner rather than later. And, anyway, don't I get any more smokes? If I'm gonna be walking, I'm gonna need 'em, and," he considers for a moment, "I think I'll need a bunch of painkillers too, for my shoulder." It kills him to ask for that, but if he doesn't ask for it, he won't get it, and, besides, it's not like anyone's around to see the admission that he knows.

"I don't have any of either. A thousand apologies." Despite the number, the tone is more a formality than profusely apologetic.

"Bullshit." The remark is out before it can be checked.

"I _don't_ have any, now," and with that, the gun is stowed away.

Sawyer decides to humor that bit of trust and cooperate for once, and he drags himself to his feet, reaching out for something to grab onto. It takes more of an effort than he would like, and having to use that effort frustrates him. He might even go so far as to say that it embarrasses him, except that the stranger has nothing to go on to know how he acts normally.

He shudders only slightly as he stands. Maybe he _is_ feeling better today. He even manages to stand up for all of three seconds before his legs give, and he offers the stranger a broad grin, hoping the immobility isn't a serious offense on his part, but scarcely caring if the grin is. "Looks like we ain't goin' anywhere yet. And anyway," he adds, suddenly remembering his priorities, "you owe me an explanation for those damn army tags."

That last part is ignored, but he had half expected it to be, anyway. "Shut up and walk, or I'll shoot you, right soon. Your choice." The slightly melodic tone is a definite contrast to the threat, and he notices that mania again, odd and worrisome to him in his position.

That's a change, and not a good one. At least he hasn't started to tweak yet, though. Sawyer is thankful for that much, and the thought hits: _Maybe it's not meth after all._ Toss another question onto the line, though: What the hell did the guy inject? He had been looking forward trying to get more answers. Apparently he won't be getting them at the moment. "Sounds like a hell of a choice. You drive a hard bargain," Sawyer tosses back dryly, but drags himself to his feet, watching, studying. "Where are we going?"

"Inland," is the only response he gets, frustratingly vague. Then, "Not that far." It sounds like a compromise of sorts, and Sawyer feels some degree of relief at that. He won't be asked to exert himself any further than he can, and he _can_ walk, if he really has to. He watches and waits until he really has to start moving, propping himself against a tree, trying to get his senses in order as much as he can while the stranger goes about packing up things and getting rid of whatever evidence of the camp is available.

Everything is stowed away somewhere, shoved in a pocket or a knapsack, stashed somewhere that the guy can get to it easily. _That's how army guys pack. Everything should be available and easily grabbed when it turns out to be needed._

It occurs to Sawyer that this is the first opportunity he's had to get a good look at the guy who is lackadaisically his custodian. There's no familiarity there, no twinge of recognition, and no real threat from the guy without his gun. _And if I weren't sick, I'd already have that gun._

Such as it is, though, he can only stare, try to take in the guy's looks. He's naturally medium-complected, but the sallow overlay to his skin suggests he hasn't seen sunlight for a while. About his own age, long, matted dark hair, ratty-looking, bugging eyes. Small-framed, a guy that he can easily take out in an even fight, where the other guy doesn't have a gun and he doesn't have any number of medical concerns that keep him from squaring off against the fellow. Entirely unimpressive, except for the lab-tech uniform he's wearing. Nothing about this guy spells natural threat, and Sawyer attributes to that the fact that he hasn't felt threatened once yet. Except for the crazy vibes.

"Hey, who are you?" Sawyer demands.

_He'd asked that same question of the manager at the Pollo Tropical, and Jeannie had just stared at him, and he couldn't explain to her, because all of a sudden, there were way more important things to be concerned about._

"Nobody important."

"And how'd you know about my damn shoulder? I never saw you before."

"We've seen you." And a hand extends for a shake. Sawyer tilts forward as much as he dares to return the handshake, feeling like he'll continue falling forward, feeling weak. The other man frowns at that, but out of curiosity rather than real concern, although his hand tightens on Sawyer's just a bit to keep him upright. "Name's Desmond."

From the look on this fellow's face, that's supposed to matter. Sawyer has no idea why. He shrugs. "All right, Desmond, then. Nice to meetcha, Desmond. Don't suppose you have a Jeep to get through this?" He waves a hand to the jungle around, then takes a few teetering steps forward. As his legs give, he spots a second syringe, or what he at least hopes is a second syringe, full with the same stuff that the man had injected into his own arm.

"No," Desmond says. "But I do have something that can get you walking better for the time being, if you'd be wantin' it. Roll up your shirtsleeve."

Sawyer draws a deep breath, leaning heavily against the tree, watching, cautious, trying to see any hint of wrongness. He sees plenty, but what other choice does he have? He sets his arm out and waits for the needle to hit.


	13. Long Arm of the Law

**XIII: Long Arm of the Law**

Sayid thinks: _There is a history lesson on the law of the Ottomans in the writing on the computer screen:_

In the early seventeenth century, Ahmed the First decided, rather than execute his brothers by the Right of Fratricide, to imprison them in the kafes_, or cage. They were locked there for years, served by deaf-mutes, and slowly driven crazy by the lack of human contact. After a few years, they would emerge unfit to govern. One made his teenage lovers governors of Cairo and Damascus. Another practiced archery on live prisoners. A third had his harem of almost three hundred women drowned in the Bosporus._

Staring at the computer screen that has just spoken his language, Sayid feels every bit as useless and crazy as the aristocrats emerging from their individual oubliettes. This can't be. He drums his fingers on the table, to keep them busy and to keep them from being tempted to type automatically, as he tries to figure out whether to reply.

_Al salaam a'alaykum_ keeps on sitting there before him; whomever is on the other end expects an answer. If he doesn't answer, they'll know too, from the looks of it. He shrugs, cracks his neck to ease a sudden tension, and quickly types back his reply in Arabic: _Peace be upon you as well. To whom am I speaking?_

He scarcely expects a reply in Arabic beyond just the standard greeting, so he feels further shocked when he gets it: _Nobody important._ He has to restrain a sharp sound that's almost laughter at that. Then: _This was just a test. We will talk tomorrow. It's good that you decided to stay. It's time to press the button._ And the screen goes back to the command prompt, and the alert sounds. He enters the numbers, hesitating on them somewhat. The scientist in him wants to enter some different numbers, to see what reaction that might merit. If the computers are being monitored and controlled, then there's certainly less risk than he had initially thought. Despite himself, he enters the right numbers and leans back in the chair, staring at the command prompt again.

In another situation, this might be funny. He allows himself a small moment of laughter even now, his eyes on the screen in case his conversant might chat at him again. He gives it five minutes, then ten, and there's no response. Rising from the chair, he paces the area of the hatch cautiously, scanning for any sort of obvious surveillance equipment. It's strange, though: Everything is so obsolete that it becomes difficult. If the reinforced walls below them came from Chernobyl, then so too does everything else, the technology from when he was a teenager at the latest. It will take some effort to school his knowledge, to stop thinking of the most advanced technology and restrain his knowledge by several decades, to operate on a basis of less relevant technology.

Then again, _should_ he even do that? Maybe that's what they want him to do, to limit his knowledge. There was a quote in a Western science fiction book he read once: _Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic_. He does not believe in magic, be it djinns or digital wizards, but he does believe in what the fellow, Clarke, said.

He'll have to watch for those sort of coincidences. There are already a lot of coincidences flying around on the island, but there could stand to be more. He believes in them, at least, even if there must be some pragmatic and rational explanation behind them. People like Jack don't even believe the coincidences exist.

_Jack. The head-count._ He'd forgotten about that. He wants to find out, but not at the cost of placing anyone in danger from the hatch's lack of monitoring. How long should he sit here and wait, though? Given what's gone on, he's hesitant to leave the hatch unattended again. Fortunately, the question is resolved for him in short order:

"Hey, Sayid." Michael, plain-speaking, forthright. He smiles towards the black man, rising from behind the computer. Michael shoots the computer a strange look, holding on it for a long moment before lifting his eyes to the Iraqi's own. "How is it?"

His smile becomes conciliatory. Something's made Michael nervous, and he'll figure out why at some point. He resolves to do just that. "It's fine, Michael. I entered the numbers two minutes ago, so you have a while to go, yet." He tilts his head a little at Michael, feeling his hair spring with the gesture. "There's something further than that, though," he comments quietly, holding Michael's gaze.

Michael hesitates, shaking his head, and responds, "No, man. Nothing further than that. Nothing you need to worry about. But thanks, Sayid."

If he wanted to, he could get an answer from Michael, figure out what his problem is. He suspects it has to do with the boy, Walt, but arrives at that answer through process of elimination if nothing else. He will do that, but as long as Michael himself is not in danger, he need not worry about it at the moment. He should give the other man a warning, though, and he points a finger at the monitor in indication. "If you get any strange messages from this, Michael, please inform me at your earliest convenience. If you get the opportunity, please do so at once."

A haunted look crosses Michael's face, the expression easy to read. _He's seen something,_ Sayid thinks. He doesn't wish to share his own communications with Michael yet, though, so he doesn't press the issue. Instead, Michael replies a bit absently, "I'll do that," and settles at the computer, hunching over it as Sayid moves for the corridor and the stairs that lie beyond, scaling them to the exit.

–––

"Everyone's here," is Jack's greeting to Sayid. "Well, minus Sawyer," he adds, as if the Southerner's absence was either too obvious to be considered, or too welcome a contribution to be considered a detriment. There's some unspoken animosity there. Sayid has known that from the moment Jack agreed to his suggestion to torture the man. People do not agree so readily if they have no stake in the matter.

"Indeed," Sayid replies slowly. "And if we are missing nobody, I suppose you are right. Sawyer went off on his own from the hatch, most likely." He doesn't think that is quite the situation, but what else ought he to say? Suggesting worse alternative fates is unlikely to merit much beyond simple, blunt dismissal. "How bad are his injuries now? Might he have a chance of survival, or ought we to organize a body retrieval?"

He should have known that would shock Jack. He hadn't even considered its possible weight in the situation, and he really should have. At least Jack doesn't overreact at the words, though, which is always a very real possibility. Instead, this time, the taller fellow stares at him for a long moment, stunned into silence before dismissing the issue. "Do what you think's best, Sayid. He's not going far with that injury; I'll say that much. He'll need continued medical care. A triage. If he's not getting that, then… I suppose retrieval's the right option."

And, with that, Jack starts walking away, clearly washing his hands of the issue. He's not going to expend his energy going after Sawyer, and in a way, Sayid can't blame him. However, the issue of the search party currently consumes him. He must start to consider who would be best at the retrieval. In going through his mental list of people, he knows two with tracking ability: John Locke and Kate. That number has grown to four, now that the others have joined them: The cop, Ana-Lucia, and the large African whose name he has not yet learned but who he has learned from experience is a formidable fighter. He will have to round those people up. He will do that after he has something to eat and drink. It's not wise to go searching for people without a little food to keep himself going.

This will be good, though. It will give him something to do, a way to make himself useful. He needs that, after all the tragedy that has recently happened. He needs to feel like he's doing something, making some sort of practical contribution, and if he can either bring back a dead man for proper services – (_Would Sawyer have a Christian funeral, like the average American might?_ Sayid wonders. _He certainly hasn't been a picture of piety_) – or recover the living. If he can prevent one person from dying, that will at last do something to even the score for Shannon and the rest.

If he can find out why the little bit of metal he carries is worth anything to the fellows who may have abducted Sawyer, too, so much the better. Maybe John Locke would know. He is older, and he seems to have a fairly solid knowledge base. Sayid will ask him later, and knows he will get at least some explanation as to what type of soldier would wear these memorabilia. The day promises information and possibly more exploration of the island, and the possibilities energize him. He starts for the settlements to get some food of his own.

He trusts Jack. Nonetheless, he silently begins a head-count of his own. The more certainty he has of issues, the better. He is relieved, a few hours later, to find Jack is right, and he starts to convene the people he's selected for the search. He certainly would not have wanted to make enemies out of former friends. That has happened a few too many times in the past.


	14. Don’t Let Us Get Sick

**XIV: Don't Let Us Get Sick**

"And then I thought maybe I'd leave the dogs there," she said. She looked the young man in the eyes, feeling sympathy for his position, wanting nothing more than to say, _I know how you feel. I know what it's like to want to leave responsibility behind, to want to drift away from everyone and everything you care about to start over somewhere where you have no ties and no way for anyone to keep you there._

"Really?" The young man was stunned, like he had never thought psychologists could do that.

"Really," she affirmed. "I thought maybe, just for that moment… I could go away. But, no. I couldn't. Because I'm human. And so are you." She quirked up her mouth into a smile, trying to get him to smile.

He smiled back, but it was a shaky gesture. However, she knew it was sincere. The way he drew closer to her, opened herself up to him: That was no fake, and she made a mental note of it. He was watching her hands, seeing if she'd scribble it down as a note on the pad that she kept turned away from him, and she did nothing of the sort. That would be too obvious, and wouldn't instill trust.

_Unipolar affective disorder,_ she thought, watching him. _Atypical depression with reversed vegetative symptoms._ He was a textbook definition, really: Oversleeping, overeating, unable to hold down a job, sensitivity and anxiety, and panic attacks. But what had really clued her in to the boy's problems was how cheerful he seemed on the surface. He had these moments of giddiness, hardly pronounced and random enough for bipolarity but enough to conform with her initial diagnosis.

She leaned back in her chair, watching him. A small sound escaped her lips, midway between a chuckle and a sigh, and she set pen and notepad on the table. "Well, just so you know, you're not the only one who has feelings like that sometimes." She chose not to elaborate on her own feelings any further.

"I know." The boy – young man, really; he was in his mid-twenties and not too much younger than she – softened further at that, and his eyes lifted to meet hers, seeking out some sort of empathy. She studied him for a moment, feeling more academic curiosity than she figured she ought, but the young man spoke up before she could feel too guilty. "Well," he said, repeating her tone in a strangely accurate fashion, "I don't know what else you want to know. I mean, that's the whole of it." His fingers tightened on the chair, as if expecting to be told otherwise, and he glanced towards the notebook that she had set down and the folder next to it.

"You're right," she declared, rising. "I'll give this report to Dr. Lee, and he'll be in touch with you. I won't be your primary doctor – because I'm not a doctor – but you'll see someone I trust. You'll see someone good." She would see to it. He was so sensitive.

That brought a new wave of concern to the young man, who glanced down at the floor as if looking for it to swallow him up. "My – my mother," he began, and she could think of nothing but Hitchcock movies. She wiped the smirk off her face that she felt about to form and forced the Norman Bates image from her mind: It was improper for psychological evaluations. "She won't have to know, will she?"

"Not if you don't want her to," she assured him, telling him the truth, "and you don't pose a threat to others or yourself. If you do, we'll have to inform the authorities, but to be honest, I don't see that happening. I trust you. You're a good kid."

He smiled, a slow blossoming of an expression. She wondered if it was the first compliment like that anybody had ever paid him. She suspected it might have been. There was a silence, but it was a comfortable silence, and the young man turned for the door, his fingers clutching on the frame as he turned back around to face her. "Doctor – "

"I'm not a medical doctor," she corrected the young man quickly, and then supplied him with an alternative: "Libby."

"Libby," the young man started again. He chewed at his lip, stared at her. His eyes were hot with pain, and she imagined that the tears that she could see starting to gleam would do nothing to cool the burning. "I'm not crazy."

"No, you're just suffering from depression. But you can come out of it, I'm sure. You will. Anyway, one of the real staff will be in touch with you, and then we'll see what we can do for you. You may have to be evaluated, but you're a good kid. I think you can handle that."

The young man smiled, nodded silent thanks, and moved out the door. She sat there for a long moment, staring at his record, flipping through papers as his footfalls sounded down the hallway. She wished she could do more for him, but to interfere would be improper. She had been hired as a psychologist, as someone to diagnose problems, not to treat it. But she wanted more than anything to help, and it pained her that she could do nothing. For not the first time, she regretted not following through with medical school. Her parents had asked her to come and take care of their home, though, and they lived so very far away from everything else. She owed it to them, and then they had died so suddenly after she had gotten there that she felt a duty to the house, to their memory.

Things had all worked out over the past few years, though. She had found a reliable caretaker for the house, the man who owned the farm next door. She could scarcely believe that llamas could survive in upstate New York, but he seemed to treat them decently, and she trusted he'd keep up the house well. He had promised to use it for a vacation home for his guests, what little tourism he got, and she knew he would. It had felt bad, leaving the dogs behind, and she remembered the crazy idea she'd had to just abandon them. It still felt like she had done that anyway, but at least they were happy where they were.

They would never have been happy in California, not in the small studio apartment near the clinic. She had made the right decision, she told herself. She had done what was best for them, not herself, and that was the right decision. She would now do what was best for the young man, which was to turn his files over to Dr. Lee and to let the more competent professionals deal with the boy's troubles. She wondered whether they really were more competent, but supposed it was true – they had the degrees, after all.

She rose fully from the chair, then, and started down the hallway, watching the young man disappear through the doors, pushing both of them open and moving through like a force of nature. A boulder, perhaps, or a glacier. Her eyes drifted down to his files and then back up to the Asian-American fellow who stood there with his hand outstretched for her files. "Is that the Reyes boy, Libby? The outpatient depression?"

_Atypical depression,_ she thought, but saw no need to correct the man with the degree. "Yes," Libby said flatly, and handed over the folder on Hugo Reyes, twenty-five year old Hispanic male, 320 pounds, brown hair and eyes, to the care of Doctor Lee's psychological clinic.


	15. Trouble Waiting to Happen

**XV: Trouble Waiting to Happen**

While he waits for the group to wake up and gather at the caves, Sayid tries to tune into airplanes. He has managed to acquire a radio from within the hatch, and he squints at it, leaning over it with a screwdriver in one hand. The frequency modulation has to be adjusted. He has already checked the volume and opened up the case so he can see the circuit board. Under the tuning dial, there is a small screw slot and some diodes, little glass beads with wires on either end. It is these that he needs to adjust, and he presses the screwdriver into the slot, twisting carefully.

There is a loud hiss, and he lets it grow louder and louder, changing the frequency into amplitude, changing FM to AM. Now he finds the little wire coils and pries them apart carefully, separating them without letting them touch another part of the radio. Eighty-eight megahertz has just been expanded to a hundred and eight. He has an aircraft radio.

He sets the radio down, satisfied, and stares at it for a moment. Within this radio contains, possibly, their means of acquiring a signal of a passing craft. Within that, he can find out whether anyone is aware of their situation – and what else is on this island. _Mohammed brought the word of God, and I bring the word of Oceanic Airlines._ There's a nice parallel in there, and he stares at the radio, satisfied. His fingers rest on the dial of the radio, and he starts to turn it carefully, waiting for a broadcast. All he receives is static, but he feels like he's closing in, and –

"Sayid?" Light glints off John Locke's bald head as he ducks into the shade of the cave. "You'd said to meet here. Not at the hatch?"

There's no weight to the question, Sayid can tell. It's innocently posed, or at least intended to sound innocent. Nonetheless, he puts the radio aside, shielding it with his body as he turns to face Locke. A quick shake of his head. "No, not at the hatch," he tells Locke, a benign smile on his face. "There's no need to make this a community meeting, and if we hold it there, it will be. The others are coming?"

"So they've said," Locke replies evenly. "I spoke with Mr. Eko, and he's agreed to speak with the policewoman – "

"Ana-Lucia."

" – yes. And to keep her under control." Locke's head tilts towards Sayid. "I can see you wanting to take along Kate and me, because we have tracking experience, and Mr. Eko, because he's… well," Locke supplies in lieu of a description, "but I'll admit that I'm a bit confused as to why you want to take along Ana-Lucia, Sayid."

"Because I don't want to leave her here and out of anyone's control," Sayid replies simply. "She is likely to go off and do something hasty, if she is not watched. Like you said, she needs to be kept under control. Besides, if the stories they have told all of us are correct, she has killed – " _Shannon_ " – a few of the Others as well." He hopes Locke won't notice the momentary hesitation.

If Locke does, he shows none of it. Instead, he runs a hand over his bald head, glances back towards the path from which he's come, and then looks directly to where Sayid has put the radio. His eyes light then, and he takes a step closer towards the radio with an innocent, "What've you got there?" Poker-faced, the older man's mouth draws tight. "Let's see." His hand extends for the radio, as if he expects to be given it directly.

_He is not getting the radio, if at all possible._ Sayid squares his shoulders, tries to think of a response that will divert Locke, opens his mouth to say it.

"Hey! Hey, is this where we were supposed to meet or what?" A voice that has become recently familiar snaps through the cave, and both Sayid and Locke pause. Locke pivots around, as the small Latina strides into the cave. "It's too damn dark in here. What the hell is this, a candlelight vigil? Nobody's dead yet. Some search party!"

Sayid flicks the flashlight on, tossing it towards her. It casts a wobbly beam across the wall of the cave as it arcs towards Ana-Lucia, and he notes her quick reflexes as she moves to snag it out of midair, grabbing hold. _She's quick. Alert. Perhaps hyper-alert. But maybe she _was_ a good choice,_ he thinks. He'd been uncertain about her, but he's pleased to see that she has some merit after all. "We're meeting in here because the meeting is not something about which I want everyone to know. Plus, I don't wish to disrupt things."

She snorts, evincing her disgust for that last remark. "Yeah, well, I don't know what's going on, and you two are going to tell me." It is not even remotely a request. She strides further into the cave, shining the flashlight at the both of them, and Sayid keeps an eye on Locke's reaction. _This should be interesting._

Locke lets the matter of the radio drop, turning to face the short woman. His eyes drift above her head and Sayid glimpses the African, Ana's all but silent escort, following in her wake. _Sidi Mohammed had bodyguards as big as he,_ Sayid thinks, waiting for the others to file into the cave. His hand reaches out to slip the radio into his pocket, seizing the chance of Locke's momentary distraction.

To Sayid, it's the strangest thing, too: Locke and Eko clasp hands warmly, already having been acquainted, from the looks of it. Their greeting is warm, and Sayid wonders at this, though it's not his place to ask. He motions them to a seat on the floor of the cave and takes one himself, declaring, "We're missing Kate. I suppose none of you have seen her outside?"

There's some brief shuffling, but nobody seems to have an answer. Ana moves to set the flashlight down so that it throws light throughout the cave, and Sayid is momentarily transfixed by the patterns that the light throws onto the wall, the play of shadows along the cave. It takes him a moment to turn his glance back to the group, and when he does, he sees a figure's shadow cast past the lip of the cave to where they are. From its shape, it's feminine. "Kate?"

She looks upset or angry, somehow, but as she closes in on the group, her face clears and she moves to take an impromptu seat as well. "Sorry, Sayid," she says briskly, hardly apologetic, but Sayid accepts that as an answer anyway. He's got more things to worry about than why she was late at the moment, though he makes a mental note to ask her later. For now, though, he has to concentrate, and approach the matter a bit delicately: This will be a headache to coordinate, and he needs their cooperation.

"We are the search party," he begins, his eyes on them, his tone serious. "We are going to figure out what happened and why, and we all have skills to contribute. John and Kate, you two can track. Mr. Eko, you can fight, as you've made quite evident. Ana-Lucia, you're handy with a gun." He thinks, _And I'm not letting you behind to run the camp, because who knows what would happen?_ – but he chooses not to say that. "We have received permission to take some of the weaponry contained in the hatch – "

" 'Hatch'?" Ana's voice sounds confused, and like she doesn't appreciate being confused. He should have known that would happen, and he winces inwardly. "What 'hatch'? What the hell are you go – "

"Ana," a bass voice reverbs towards her off the walls of the cave, Eko speaking up for the first time since he's entered the cave and greeted Locke. "Please. Let Mr. Jarrah speak."

Sayid shoots Eko a grateful glance, offering him a little nod of thanks. Eko nods back, the silent communication over in a moment. "We will take the weapons in the hatch," he begins again, "whatever we need. The only clue we have is this army tag. A dog-tag, is the name I've heard." He slips the army tag from his pocket, passing it around, watching for any reaction. Kate and Locke both have a moment of recognition, which he had assumed would happen from their entry of the numbers on the tag into the hatch computer, but neither of the newcomers so much as bat an eye at the tag. It winds up back in his hand in a few moments, and he closes his fingers on it, continuing, "That is why I need people who can track. If we encounter combat, then we will need people skilled in that as well."

There seems to be general acceptance, and that relieves him. He had been ready to argue the case for doing this, but there instead seems to be an odd gratefulness for something to do, as the sighs of relief and relaxed postures convey. In fact, the only one to take exception to things is Kate, who has sat silently through the rest of it, staring into nothingness. He had figured her silence for a lack of interest, but as she speaks up, he sees that he was mistaken:

"You're running this, then? Jack put you in charge?" Her voice is quiet, strained somehow. She almost sounds offended at what he has said. "Fine, then." Strain turns to snappishness. "So what do I do, then? Sounds like I'm not doing much of anything, from how you describe it."

"You track," Sayid replies simply. "With Locke. The two of you have experience in the wilderness, and I figured that you would be the best to go out there and see what you can see."

"So what do _we_ do, Eko and me?" Ana-Lucia's voice sounds similarly strained as Kate's, although not half as quiet. She leans forward towards Sayid, businesslike all of a sudden. "If the two of them are going to go out and go after him, do we just hang back and shoot people? Let me tell you, that sounds fantastic." Sayid notes the wary glance she gives Kate. He tells himself: _I must find that out later._ He does not, however, pursue the line of inquiry. Ana-Lucia will scarcely let him get a word in edgewise to do so, it seems. "Besides, you want someone with a gun on the front lines, not some stick of a hick girl." Her voice is rich with derision towards the other young woman.

"That is why the two of you are not going to be doing the same thing, and certainly not together," Sayid replies coolly. There's no sense in letting an argument develop between the two of them. "Meet me at the hatch." He holds up his hand so Ana cannot inquire further as to what the hatch is. Much to his relief, she obeys the silent request for once. "We start out in three hours. Gather what you need. I'll get the weaponry." He rises to his feet, staring down into the beam of the flashlight on the floor.

If they were in the Republican Guard and this was a reconnaissance mission, he would have dismissed them, and he feels useless without orders to give, without a greater structure to their plans. But they can't tell until they start tracking how things will go. They must be prepared for anything. He hopes that he has put together a group of people who can handle themselves. If not, he suspects, he will find out the hard way. But the fighters know what they're in for, and the trackers know the land – so he has arranged a decent sampling, he figures.

He waits, a bit tense, until both young women have left the cave. He expects John Locke to inquire further about the radio, but Locke, too, ducks out. He starts to follow after Locke, but is stopped in his tracks by a wavering light behind him, glinting towards him silently. He pivots, turning to face Eko, brows raised in inquiry. "Yes?"

"Your torch. You left it."

The flashlight is extended towards Sayid, who is momentarily surprised at the familiar word – _British colonial remnants,_ he thinks – but recovers from it fairly quickly. Accepting the flashlight, he smiles wanly towards the Nigerian. "How do you feel about the plan?" he asks as he starts for the mouth of the cave, feeling the sun begin to stream down. "Do you think we're doing the sensible thing, going out there when we have no idea know what or who is out there?"

"No," Eko replies decisively. Sayid stops, turning towards him, cueing him to continue. "But I think," comes the gradual declaration, "that we are doing the right thing." The tall African considers his words for a few more moments before adding, "And we must not doubt. 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' Ecclesiastes."

Although theology holds little weight for him, Sayid knows the quote is right, its sentiments proper. He offers Eko a deliberate nod, hoping his gratitude is adequately expressed. "You speak truth and, for that, you have my respect," he responds solemnly to Eko before emerging into the sunlight and starting down the path to civilization once more.


	16. Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner

**XVI: Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner**

Whatever that shot was, it's helped him walk, clearing his mind somewhat, calming his nerves, and giving him the adrenaline to press on, so Sawyer's not about to ask any questions of its composition. Chances are, whatever definition would be given, he wouldn't understand it anyway. For the span of about three seconds, he wants Jack there to tell him what he was given, and then to get lost once the definition's relayed.

There's not much of a path anymore, most of it swallowed up by the jungle, but Sawyer does his best to try and keep an eye out for tracks or whatever he can find. _If I knew what I was supposed to be looking for, maybe I could find it in all these vines and ferns and trees and leaves and stuff._ He should've asked Kate or Locke to give him lessons after they got back from tracking the boar. That would have certainly helped. As it is, he can do nothing but try to make out little etchings in the dirt, marks that seem as foreign to him as hieroglyphs.

He doesn't have much time to figure it out, though. He's got to keep walking, on a dogged trek that's eerily similar to the one he made mere days ago back to the camp. _There's a irony there that nobody else would appreciate, I'm sure._ At the rate the other fellow walks, Sawyer has started to wonder at what point they will cross the island – or, worse, come across the Others.

No whispers, though. None at all. No hint of anything wrong, except the druggie he's tagging along with. There's plenty wrong with him. He's got the gun, though, so Sawyer isn't going to comment. _Well, not unless he says something to me first._ His comrade apparently prefers silence, though, and for once that's fine with Sawyer. He would have said something to provoke the other fellow into conversation, but he's dealing with an unstable individual, and there's no sense in making matters worse.

"So, you never left that hatch, huh?" He can't resist. The questions keep on shooting to the surface and sooner or later, one of them has to break the water. This is the one that does, and though he tenses for a moment, he's satisfied with it. He could have asked plenty of worse things. "Just spent your days in there listenin' to hippie music and reading crappy science fiction novels. Christ!"

The other man is silent for a moment, whacking a fern out of the way. He pulls a branch aside to walk by it, and Sawyer sees it swinging back towards him. He ducks out of the way but just barely, stumbling a little. _At least my brain's working, even if my reflexes still aren't, quite._

"I was told that I had to stay down there and push that damned button. And the doors said 'Quarantine.' What would you've done, then?"

Sawyer doesn't hesitate. "I would've gone right out through those doors. Bam."

"We can't all be as stupid as you, man."

"It's not stupidity," Sawyer snarls. That comment stung a bit, though he's damned if he's going to admit it. "It's calculated risks. See, bein' in my line of work, you've got to know when to take risks like that. And, hell, if you were ever gonna take a risk, that would've been the one to take."

Desmond turns back towards him. Stares, as if he can't quite comprehend why Sawyer would advocate such a position. Shakes his head slowly, lank hair flopping. "Ain't any damned way. Kelvin said there were things out there. That's why we had the defense system worked out, y'see. That way, those… _things_ couldn't get inside."

"We got inside. Anything could."

That's cause for concern, from the look on Desmond's face. Sawyer watches the progress of emotions: Shock, disbelief, acceptance, resentment, fear, panic – and he watches the other fellow's hand go for his gun.

"But you're lucky. Nothing else did. And your hatch is fine. We're still enterin' the numbers. I know. I spent damn _days_ cooped up on that bed." _OK, so a little exaggeration never hurts._ "Trust me, Bono. All right?"

Sawyer doesn't blame the other fellow for the look of absolute distrust, or the scornful laugh and bitter words that come: "Trust someone whose damned friends swarm into my hatch, take it over, take my stuff – I wanted to get out, man, but this ain't the way I'd planned it." Desmond's fingers drift away from the pistol. "You think I didn't want to get out? You think, when I saw brother-Jack there, I didn't want to tell him, 'Jesus, brother, I spent so long down here goin' crazy waiting for the day when they'd open up that fuckin' door!' ?"

If Sawyer hadn't been watching where he was going, he would have easily tripped on the root before him. As it is, he just drags himself on and lets out a stunned, "_Jack_?"

Desmond doesn't pay any attention to his shock. "Your friend. Tall as you, brown hair – that was longer when I knew him, man, though not as long as yours – doctor or something, if my memory's still servin'?"

"Yeah!" He cuts off the description as quickly as he can do. "Yeah, I know him. I don't _like_ him – but I know him." Sawyer stops dead in his tracks, forcing Desmond to do so too. He waits until Desmond's looking at him to ask the question. "What in the Sam Hill do you know Jack from?"

Desmond's mouth opens and closes a few times, silently. Sawyer can tell he wants to say something other than what he does say, but the tone of the other man's voice orders not to press the issue. "We've met a few times. First time was when he was in medical school. Nothin' much to say, really." That's an obvious lie, but no details of any other times seem forthcoming; instead, Desmond turns and starts to walk again.

As he follows, Sawyer goes through the facts as well as he can. The fellow who took him out of the hatch knows Jack, knows he was in medical school, was friends with him in medical school. The hatch is quarantined. Medically? He doesn't know, but he'll bet that's the case. And Jack's on this flight that just happens to crash where the hatch is located, out of all the islands in the world that it could crash on. Entirely coincidence, of course. Totally coincidence. And here is this guy, this lunatic, with the army tags, and if the whole place is some sort of big setup – a hatch, a radio tower, enough resources to have that ship that they took the kid on – there's something wrong here. There's something desperately wrong here. And it's got to be set right. The whole thing has to have been set up in some way. Coincidences don't happen as neatly as this. No, this has to be a con of the highest order. Someone even better at pulling scams than he himself has organized this.

Why didn't he see it coming? He chides himself for that as he follows through the forest, trailing along after his captor as best he can. _I should have been able to tell things like that. Damn it, boy, you think you're the best con-man there is, and you can't even see things like this coming._

A paroxysm of doubt seizes him, then. Maybe he's no good at being a con. How else to explain how he shot the wrong damn guy in Australia, that stupid shrimp seller who was Hibbs' foe? He should have seen that coming, too. Ever since the whole Florida thing got settled, he's been making these same stupid mistakes, and he's got nobody to blame for it but himself. _Well, there's one other person who started this. The son of a bitch started all this. He'll pay, when I get stateside._ He scrapes some brushes to the side and trails along after the other man, feeling himself start to stumble, his feet start to pound a bit harder on the ground now. He needs more drugs, speed or morphine or whatever he was shot up with. Should he ask? How the hell is he supposed to ask, anyway?

He doesn't get the chance. As they break into a clearing amidst the trees, he almost stumbles right into Desmond. _Real coordinated, there._ Managing to snag a low branch of some tropical tree, he holds himself up, following Desmond's glance to the ferns that lie beyond. There's a gun lying there atop the leaves, a submachine gun of some sort, stock closer to them and the gun barrel pointing at the thicket of trees beyond. It's an old gun, from the Seventies at the latest. A Thompson, a tommy-gun. That's not what attracts the most attention, though, and he watches as Desmond takes a few cautious steps closer.

A body. That's all. It doesn't even have a head. It's decomposed pretty well by now, a few weeks dead, and what scraps of clothes remain are dipped in a dull, rusty brown that he knows is blood. As Sawyer looks down around the body he sees blood everywhere, like an animal attack. More animals have picked at it, the bones showing through.

Desmond moves over to the body like a zombie, lifting something from the corpse. He lifts what he's got to Sawyer, and Sawyer can see – though he's known for a few seconds already just what it is – the small little army tags, dog-tags, dangling from the Irishman's fingers.

The other man's voice sounds very small. "It's Kelvin."

"Who the hell is Kelvin?"

"I buried him. I threw him into the water for a burial, and I thought maybe the tides would take him out to sea and whoever came across his body would find me. I threw him in the water, not the bloody jungle. And I definitely didn't give him that gun, or saw his head clean off."

All Sawyer can do at first is gawk open-mouthed and let out a wary, "Damn." There is no real way to respond beyond that except, "At least you ain't the only one that's lost his head now."


	17. Werewolves of London

**XVII: Werewolves of London**

They spoke mostly in English. There was no reason to use Arabic in the middle of a London airport, and plenty of reason to avoid the language.

Sayid tried not to sound pleading. "I'll put it simply: I need some money. I have done what you asked of me, and want payment in return."

"You'll get some."

"When?"

"When it gets to us. You cannot rush these sorts of things. You'll pardon me, _abu_, but surely you know that."

"You'll pardon me as well, but what am I supposed to do? Sleep at Heathrow until I can stow away on a flight? How does that get me to America? I received information the job was in London. It is not. It must be elsewhere, so I must be elsewhere."

He'd hoped these words would move the other man to help him more substantially, but the only reaction they brought was the donation of a few bills. Sayid stared down at the brightly-colored money. There weren't many bills there, but they were worth a fair amount. He dipped his head in thanks at the other man, sliding the money away. "That should be enough for the flight out of Heathrow. Thank you. Allah willing, I'll make it out of London."

Sayid knew nobody was watching, but he couldn't avoid looking around himself to see if anyone was gazing at them. They could be watched, and things could go very bad, very easily. It had been Munir's idea to meet here, and he couldn't help but wonder if the younger man had made a bad choice. Still, Munir was the one with the money and the connections, and he was only a beggar for his acquaintance's cash. It was a sickening feeling, but he could not ask otherwise.

"And where will you go from there?" Munir asked. His dark eyes bored into Sayid's own. "You will go to New York, correct? And you think you will find steady work there, a home. You have not been there before. I have. It's a big country. You will not find home there. You can only find it on the _hajj_, and there is no faith in America."

"You are a mind-reader now, a fortune-teller to divine my future as an apostate?" Sayid shook his head, insisting, "I will find my home there. You will know that I have found my home, because as soon as I get to New York, you will hear nothing from me. I will start over." _With Nadia,_ he thought, but he could scarcely tell that to the rich man's son. He had to keep the pretense of a job. It worked, though. America wanted technical people, and he was technical, and apparently their educational system could not produce competent technicians. So why _wouldn't_ he go over there?

"If you say so," Munir responded flatly. He sounded unconvinced, but he took a step back, looking away from Sayid and down the wing of the airport.

Heathrow's low, dark construction left something to be desired, and as Sayid followed his friend's glance down the hallway, he could see two pensioners staring at them. He'd received _looks_ before, and he expected them, too. They always brushed past him, flinching if they even touched him as if he'd attacked them by simply being there, whispered things about him or, even worse, spoke them right next to his ear, as though he couldn't understand English. It was to be expected, though. That was normal. Had they embraced him amongst their number, he would have been more suspicious.

Even so, he felt like a pariah. Even with Munir standing right there, he was desperately alone in the airport, and he knew it. The English phrase 'lone wolf' entered his mind, and he thought it fit. He was out here, solitary, stalking Nadia's presence and never able to quite catch the prey. _They hunt wolves, too,_ he thought, and the old couple's gazes bore into him like bullets.

"Munir, do you think – "

"I am going back to Piccadilly. You had better check on your flight, Sayid. It leaves soon. You don't want to miss it and wind up in Heathrow despite the money I have given you." The directions were sensible, Sayid knew. He nodded. Munir studied him for a long moment, his gaze evaluating, and then bowed in slight salaam, his voice low with respect for the older Iraqi.

Sayid repeated the bow, responded in Arabic, but as soon as he straightened, he looked directly towards the elderly couple. They had been staring. Now, they were starting to whisper to each other.

Heathrow was not a place in which Sayid liked spending time, but he would have to wait, it seemed. The only flight to Kennedy was a red-eye, which meant that he would leave late that night and arrive earlier at night in New York, but still late. Time zones were not in his favor today, it seemed, but he had no real choice. Munir had not given him enough money to take an easier trip.

Did it matter, though? He would see Nadia. He would get on that plane, and only a few short hours later – hours that would feel like minutes from adrenaline, and days from waiting – he would be in New York, and she _had_ to be in America. There was no other option. He had looked everywhere else. But he would find her, and all of his work would turn out for the better. It was a desperate attempt, to just fly over there and start searching, but he had the capability to do so. He was almost giddy with the possibility, and, to encourage him, the old couple had disappeared. He did not know where they went, but he did not care either. _Let them be racist. You will never see them again, Sayid, and you will find her…_

He paced the floor of Heathrow, scarcely able to take it all in but scarcely paying attention either. Virgin Records, Banana Republic, The Gap, high street clothing stores – it all blended into one neon-lit, claustrophobic blur. He walked from gate to gate, elated by his own thoughts. She was so close, even though she was most likely an ocean away.

If he looked suspicious, he did not care.

In retrospect, perhaps he should have noticed the old couple were back again, watching him. Perhaps they had a right to watch him, though, he realized. He was sure that he had done nothing to allay their suspicions during his chat with Munir, anyway.

He probably should have noticed the officials striding towards him, moving with that peculiar long stride that could only be the walk of Americans.

He definitely should have noticed when the man addressed him: "Sir? Sir, a moment, please. We want to speak with you about your friend, a Mr. Munir Hammud. We have a report from some British civilians that he was acting suspicious with you, that you two were speaking Arabic and that you are walking from gate to gate. We just want to clarify things. A moment, if you would?"

Instead, he was thinking about Nadia until they reached for the handcuffs.


	18. Mama Couldn’t Be Persuaded

**XVIII: Mama Couldn't Be Persuaded**

As he neared the laundromat, dodging between parked cars and narrowly avoiding kids on skateboards, Sawyer could feel a rush of warm air settle on his bare arms and catch the scent of soap and lint. He had hoped to go from summertime humidity into cool air conditioning, but it seemed like Debbie's business was the last place in Roxboro to acquire such niceties.

Instead, he felt sick and his arms prickled as he pushed the door open to the Quick-E-Wash, and all he could think was, _If that's a sign, I should be three states out of North Carolina instead._ The place was all but deserted, only occupied by a trio of girls pulling damp, clean clothes out of large canvas baskets and folding them mechanically, their attention on a television positioned in the far corner of the room. He glanced towards it and glimpsed a soap opera, giving it two seconds' notice – two seconds' notice too much – as he made his way towards the kiosk in where he expected his aunt to be located.

Nobody was at the counter, and he reached through the partition to ring a small metal service bell, slamming his hand down on it harder than he needed to. He was Debbie's most important customer; he couldn't imagine otherwise. He leaned back on his heels, looking through the gap in the particle board to a door that rested within the kiosk, leading to either a storage room or offices. He tried to smile while she took her time to get out, made sure that he could pull a believable grin on her. _She doesn't need to be reminded every minute that she left me to rot for twenty years now. Just every other minute._

Behind him, there were footsteps, and their lightness announced to him that they were a woman's footsteps, and a young woman's footsteps at that. He turned to face one of the girls doing the laundry, who was tall enough to look him square in the eye, lanky and graceful. His practice smile grew into one already quite practiced, and he gave her a little nod of acknowledgement. "Yes'm?" He knew he was laying it on pretty thick.

"If you're looking for Debbie, she's not here," the girl said. "She took Bobby Lee to his soccer game."

The heat of the laundromat increased, or maybe it was the fervency of his own anger. His skin felt clammy, his smile unbearably tight. She had known he'd be showing up. He had called her when he'd crossed the line into Alamance County and turned northeast. That had been half an hour ago, and she had agreed to be here. And yet she didn't care enough to wait for him, despite the fact that she had left him alone when he'd been younger than Bobby Lee, refused to take him in.

"Don't suppose you'd know when she'd be back?" he asked, making an effort to make his voice seem as normal as possible.

The girl gave him a disbelieving look. "You're angry," she commented lightly, as if the fact entertained her. "And no, I don't know. I'd guess that she's stayin' for Bobby Lee's game, though. She usually does."

He nodded quickly, blinked away some of the surprise at her observation, and murmured, "Right, all right, then," as he made his way for the door. He could feel her staring at him, and he pulled out the car keys and made for the rental parked near the laundromat. The heat beat down on the pavement, harsh and unnatural. Summer had always felt strange to him, like the land shouldn't have been as hot and sticky as it was, and today was no exception. He slid the key into the car door, turning the lock, and started to get in, gunning the motor.

The girl had run outside before he could take off, though, and he pulled up to the curb of the laundromat, brows raised, casting around in search of his sunglasses. The girl seemed desperate to tell him something, but she waited until he looked up to say her piece, wincing as she did so.

"Debbie's all right, hear? She's just busy." The girl stood there like she wanted to say more, her eyes on him, large and pleading. She cared for Debbie. He wondered what the two had to do with one another.

_They always are busy._ "All right. What else?"

She shrugged, pointing out with a slow grin crossing her face, "You'll want to know where the soccer field is, right?" He stared, nodding, and she grinned broadly, offering, "I'll take you there," as her hand reached for the door handle. He saw no reason to show any resistance. She was good-looking, and she was eager to spend some time with him. They always were.

–––

"Tequila, huh? That's a hell of a name." Sawyer made the turn into the soccer field parking lot, hand-over-hand on the wheel and sending the car spinning around the sharp turn. "I guess it's indicative, huh?" There was silence, and it was for a lack of understanding. "I mean, I guess it means something. About your parents." He grinned, adding, "Pretty cool, if you ask me," to blunt the sharpness.

The girl smiled at him, nodding. "Yeah. Pretty cool. I mean, people make fun of me, but there are just as many people who get a kick out of the name, you know? And nobody else ever has the same." She started to unfasten her seatbelt before he threw the car into park, a cheap-ringed hand waving to indicate him towards a field full of cheap team jerseys and big-haired soccer moms. "It's more interesting than James, anyway."

"Yeah, well, James is a family name. And it never grows old. I can't imagine you being ninety with the name 'Tequila' – can you?" He grinned at that, jingling the car keys as he got out of the car, making his way for the soccer field with her trailing along after him. She wanted him. She wouldn't have trailed along to find Debbie if she didn't want to be with him. He would spend the night with her, and from how pretty she was, it would probably be enjoyable while it lasted. It certainly would make a pleasant contrast to talking about family matters with his aunt. However, her focus seemed not to be on him but on Debbie, and he watched her face as she neared the older woman, suddenly feeling like an idiot for expecting too much from her.

She embraced Debbie, the familiarity more than just that of an acquaintance, the impulsive hug one born from devotion, maybe even love. He did not know the feeling as well as he'd have liked, but he could recognize it in others. It felt strange not to be on the receiving end and unable to reciprocate, though. Now he wanted to reciprocate it, but the girl, Tequila, did not want to receive it. It felt oddly fitting, and he tried to clear the shock from his face as the two women turned.

Debbie looked older than he had seen in photographs, and he felt surprised at that too, although he didn't precisely know why he should have been surprised. Her son was about seven years old and towheaded, and he felt a shock of recognition as he looked down at the boy. There was enough of his mom's side in him and Bobby Lee both to make the resemblance pretty strong between the two of them. He wanted to explain this to the boy, to reach some point of understanding with him, but he had to clear things with Debbie first.

Her voice was brittle and careful, like she was afraid of him. "James. James, it's a pleasure to see you. I know you were waiting for me, but Bobby Lee's ride fell through, so that was more important. You understand, I'm sure. And besides," she motioned to the younger woman, "you've met Tequila."

"I've met a lot of tequilas in my time," Sawyer quipped, "but never one as good-looking." They both stared at him like he'd made a hell of a mistake. He cleared his throat and agreed more seriously, "Yeah. We met. It's great to see you, Debbie." He wanted to hug her, or at the very least give her a handshake, but she offered nothing of the sort. Instead, she stared at him like she knew him for what he was, and he thought, _Am I really that transparent?_

"You're running a cigarette store in Knoxville, you said?" Debbie gave him a long, evaluating glance, and he recognized the disbelief that was displayed quite openly on her face. "That's good work, James. Honest work. I'm proud of you, if you're really doing it. That's more than your father ever did for anything."

"Wait – what has my father got to do with it?" He shot Debbie a confused look, shaking his head. Beneath them, Bobby Lee tore about, intermittently demanding a Slush Puppy. "My dad ain't got nothin' to do with it. He hasn't been around for two decades." _And neither were you, Debbie._ He did not dare to say that either.

"He killed her," Debbie shot back, her voice sharp. He sensed an argument about to come.

"What?"

"He killed my sister."

He couldn't believe it. "My dad – "

"Your father killed my sister," Debbie declared, her voice tight. "He was hiding something from her. I knew it. I warned her not to trust him. I warned her not to marry him, and look where it got her." She took a step towards him, her voice low. "And I didn't want to take you in because you reminded me of him. You look like him, James. Exactly like him. And you're probably no better."

He stumbled back, even as Tequila tried to calm down Debbie, murmuring some sort of consolation towards her, trying to ease her. He'd known that their meeting would go badly, but he had never expected that it would go this badly. He had expected to eventually ask her for a job at the laundromat, to drop the con act. He could never do that now.

Tequila's efforts were only marginally successful. With her face looking as tight as his own felt, Debbie stepped towards Sawyer, bearing down on him despite his lanky build and her short rotundity. "I don't want you around here messin' things up, James. I've got a good thing here, with Tequila, and I won't take you on as a charity case. You're too old. _I'm_ too old."

He felt his face burn. "You always were, Debbie. And her death, my mother's death – it's not my father's fault. It was my fault. My fault for not seeing him for what he was. My fault for not being able to tell my dad about him. Your sister's one-night-stand killed my father, not the other way around."

It was time to move on. He owed Debbie nothing now. She had made that quite clear. He had meant to go straight, to finally clean up his act, but how could he do that when he was stopped at every turn, when everyone kept on forcing him onto the crooked path? He hadn't wanted a handout, but he had wanted understanding, and he could get nothing from Debbie. She had nothing to give him, and he felt a certain release there. He had no ties to anyone now. He had solved that problem, even with the very solution he hadn't wanted. It had barely taken a minute of conversation, too. He supposed he should be grateful. In a strange way, he actually was.

"Take your girlfriend and your son and go home," he continued. "I don't want a damn thing from you." Sawyer quickened his pace, heading for the rental car, resisting the urge to look back towards Debbie with all the strength he had within him. "I'd wanted to see if you would help me, but I don't want your help. Not if it means I have to lie about my family. That's not what happened, and you know it! And I don't run a cigarette store either, you dumb bitch."

"Bobby Lee!" she shrieked, moving to protect her son from the curse. Out of the corner of his eye, Sawyer actually saw her cover the boy's ears. He almost laughed at that, but not quite. _She cares more about what that boy experiences in a second than what I've experienced in two decades,_ Sawyer realized as he shoved the key into the ignition. To hell with her, then. He would move on, and she would still be stuck in Roxboro, having missed her chance to make amends with him and not knowing all that she had relinquished.

There were new jobs to be had, and he would find them, even if he had lost the last of his family. Folks like Hibbs were his family now, and everyone else could be discarded like the trash they were. It almost felt good and, as he gunned the car to leave Roxboro, it started to feel better. Maybe it felt worse, actually. He wasn't sure he knew the difference anymore.


	19. Jungle Work

**XIX: Jungle Work**

"What are we standing around waiting for? What are you guys, slow or something? Let's go."

There is little to be said for the young woman's politeness, but Sayid has to nod approvingly at her enthusiasm for the trek. He wishes he can share it himself, but he is beginning to doubt his resources. Whatever, whomever they're tracking has a head start of at least half a day. Even if there have been neither vehicles nor aircraft used to expedite the getaway, there exists a gap of at least thirty miles and probably more.

_I'd wanted to put that map together more properly, and I suppose I'll get the chance to now, if only by accident,_ Sayid thinks as he checks his gear, ensures that it is fastened tightly upon him. He has taped most of it down, the better to store it. It is far easier to just grab a knife and pull and come up with it that way than if he has to search for it in a holster or pocket. As he's unsure what to expect, he's decided to err on the side of caution and give full faith to military training.

"A few hours to get ready!" Ana-Lucia continues, her tone dismissive. "I would've only given ten minutes, you know that?"

"I am sure you would have," Sayid murmurs distractedly as he finishes checking his supplies. "And you would have forgotten something, or forgotten to tell them something, or have left before someone had to tell you something important. What would you have done then?"

A burst of scoffing laughter comes from the policewoman, and she shakes her head, turning to face him. Every muscle in her face and body seems to be contorted in a show of defiance. "That wouldn't have happened. I've had lots of experience doing this. I know when something important's gone undone."

"Indeed." He turns to face her, knowing he looks like he's humoring her at best, smirking at her, brows raised. "Then you know not to leave before you are certain you can leave."

She opens her mouth to reply, looking somewhere between taken aback and irritated at him, but fortunately – for both of them, Sayid realizes – she does not get the opportunity. The arrival of the others disrupt the conversation, and he is pleased to see that all four of the others appear well-suited to travel. This bodes well for their journey, the fact that they are serious about what they're doing.

Sayid turns and starts to walk. No further explanation is needed. They're headed to the hatch first, and then out from there wherever the trackers take them, and it's as simple as that. _If only more things could be so uncomplicated that I've had to deal with,_ he thinks, before he forces that from his mind. He need not think about the past right now, or about getting off the island. There are things that must be done first.

–––

The hatch appears the same on the outside as he left it; he's pleased to see that the ensuing few hours haven't caused much traffic from those assigned to punch numbers inside the building. The door has been left open, and the ground appears the same as it did before. What's more, Locke and Kate have bent down to investigate and are studying the ground intently. The others do little more than hang around at the moment; Eko leans on his stick and watches, while Ana-Lucia lets out a brief sigh before thinking better of it and checking the sound.

Sayid gazes down from the hatch, towards the woods. He searches for broken branches, more trampled grass, more bent ferns, anything to provide them with some sort of evidence – but with all the traffic that the hatch has received in the past few days, it's impossible for him to tell what was from earlier today and what was from before that from simple observation alone.

He glances down towards the patch of grass to spot Locke and Kate having a brief, half-whispered conference. Locke rises first, dusting himself off carefully, before his eyes alight on Sayid. "Shoes. Two pairs. Both boots, from the treads, and they're both walking. Uh, they're heading… that way." He indicates a direction leading into the least sunlit part of the forest, a direction that must have been a hassle to travel for lack of starlight, if they indeed set out before dawn.

"Are we certain about that?" Sayid offers the question as levelly as he can, with an apologetic look for Locke. "If you two agree on it, then we're set. Kate?"

Kate nods, likewise pointing a finger directly into the thickets before them. "Yeah. You can see those broken tree branches there. They're new. The wood's still green. And the footsteps – " she walks beside a particular set, pacing her way to the leaves, her eyes on the ground, " – head that way. Who else would head off that way?" She turns back to the others for confirmation.

Sayid nods, ushering them forward. Going through the trees feels strange; it's no desert, and he's painfully aware of how unprepared he is for forest tracking. Having had the training in the military over fifteen years ago is a different thing than actually dealing with it now, a decade and a half after he learned the fundamentals, and he's glad to have people along to pick up the slack.

They're moving pretty quickly, and the wet mud holds the tracks well, but the sun is high in the sky, and it's hot, and tracking becomes difficult very early in for the sake of fatigue, if nothing else. Although they have the advantage of the torrential rains not having fallen, he begins to suspect that disorientation has set in within a few hours. In between encouragements to keep drinking fluids and keep looking their hardest, he begins to wonder if they're actually getting anywhere. There's no path, and he is relying on the advice of two people who very well may be crazy. Then again, perhaps they're all crazy for not having gotten off the island yet. Neither of them have any advantage to misleading him on this in particular, that he can figure, but he makes a note to keep his eyes open. Still, it's hard not to trust what they say, when he's in a position of ignorance.

And then the clay-rich mud underfoot gets lost. He's alerted to this by a sigh from Kate, who turns around to face the rest of them, shaking her head. She gestures to the ground, on which the tracks have pretty obviously disappeared beneath leaf cover. "We need tracking sticks. There's no way we'll be able to find out what's going on beneath all these leaves."

The change in cover is sudden, unnaturally sharp. Sayid turns to study the trees behind them; they're as leafy as the ones before them. However, the leaves have only fallen before them, and from the violent scattering, it seems they've fallen from a strong gust of wind. "Storms are not naturally that localized," he informs them, gesturing to the ground as he takes a look around for a usable tree branch for a tracking stick. "And they cut off far more gradually."

"So what do you think this is?" Eko asks. "If it's no storm, what is it?"

Sayid shrugs, replying, "We'll find out, I would imagine. We seem to be heading directly into it." He stares down the path, trying to isolate where the wind stopped blowing. As far as he can see ahead, though, the leaves are piled two or three high along the ground. "Whatever it is, though, it's something that doesn't occur from simple meteorology, that's for certain."

He remembers the manuals for army training, full of things they never had the chance to do in the rolling desert-land of southern Iraq. A lot of the soldiers used to be resentful of that lack of opportunity, and he suspects he probably was too, but he's thankful now that he can recall some of the manuals' instructions:

_To make a tracking stick, find a thin branch, less than two centimeters wide and around a meter long. Measure the stride from heel to heel and mark it. Measure the footprint and mark it. Let the first mark, the stride, serve as your starting point on the heel of a track and cast your stick out from there. The second footprint should be at the end of the stick. This stick should only be used in wet sand, as dry sand will fill in the footprint and render the tracking stick unusable. For different cover, see further pages…_

The process is laborious, though, and it only spells further exasperation from Ana-Lucia. "Look, if we know the direction they're traveling, can't we just head that way? I mean, it's pretty clear they're heading off in a straight line to somewhere." She glances overhead, and then back to them. "Besides, we've got only a few hours. It's mid-afternoon already. We can't afford to lose time."

"We can't afford to lose the trail, either," Kate responds, squaring off against Ana-Lucia as she pushes herself up from the trail, her stick in her hand and swung around in a defensive posture smoothly. "If we take your suggestion, we _will_ lose the trail. If you want to be responsible for that…" She trails off, making an expansive gesture. "Be my guest."

"You don't seem to be doing a very good job of finding the trail."

"None of us are," Sayid interjects, feeling his voice strain with the effort. "We'll continue for a while with these tracks. Ana-Lucia, if you want to go ahead of us, feel free. We bear no responsibility if you get in trouble, though."

"I wouldn't have expected otherwise," Ana-Lucia snaps, and starts off, whacking at a lone fern in frustration with her makeshift tracking stick.

–––

Despite Ana-Lucia's efforts to go ahead, she returns to their path a few hours later bedraggled and frustrated. Twilight is starting to settle on the land, and already Locke and Eko have put together a makeshift camp, gotten out some of the supplies they've brought along, and started to prepare a meal when the Hispanic woman finds her way back to them. They all look up towards her, and she shakes her head. "Nothing. Not a damn thing."

Sayid glances towards Kate, and catches a small, satisfied smirk flitting across the brunette's face. He ignores it, though, and turns his attention back to Ana-Lucia. "Stay with us, then," he advises her. "It's better that way. If we get into combat, who will shoot it out besides me?"

She snorts at that, but moves for some of the food alongside the other men. "I don't see why we have to do all this anyway. I mean, nobody likes the guy." There's no disagreement from the others, which only encourages her. "So why we're going out to find him, I don't know. He wanted to be left behind anyway. So we should leave him behind now. Whatever we're going after is more trouble than we should be getting into, I know that much. This island – I don't like messing with it."

"The island doesn't want to be messed with," Locke agrees, passing a bottled water to the girl. "It's a force in and of itself. Besides, we don't need to find anyone. The island's already found us. So I think…" he licks his lips, hesitating, "… that searching won't solve anything. I agree."

Sayid glances towards Eko and Kate, but no further opinions on the search are leveled. Instead, their attention seems to be consumed with dinner. The way that Locke and Ana-Lucia are looking at him, though, he has to offer something to counter them.

"I will assume," Sayid begins, watching the disagreeing pair closely, "that the American police follow the same creed as the American military in how they treat their compatriots, and that the American military follows the same creed as the Republican Guard where this is concerned. We may not like him. We may not succeed in finding him. The island may have already found him. But," he continues, raising a finger to emphasize the point, "the Republican Guard, and your police, Officer Cortez, follow this logic: Leave no one behind. So that is what we must do. Leave no one behind. If we can find him, we must find him, no matter what else we find along the way."

Satisfied, he falls silent, gauging the others' reactions. This takes back Ana-Lucia; she nods in agreement, busying herself in her food. Locke, however, still does not look convinced, eyeing him with a certain distrust. He recognizes that distrust: "I can't believe you, until you prove me wrong." He'll leave Locke to his distrust, though. As long as the man is cooperating, let him think what he likes.

Sayid wouldn't deign to say otherwise. Instead, he rises to his feet, leaving the others to eat. He has more things to do before he can relax enough to dine on C-rations, and he must do them while Locke is moderately distracted with dinner.

Slipping into a copse of trees, he pulls out the radio, unbinding it from a wrist where he's secured it. He's managed to snag an earphone, and he plugs that into the radio, placing it carefully into his ear. The last thing he wants is for Locke to hear the radio static. _The two of us have a bad history when it comes to radios,_ Sayid thinks as he thumbs through the dial – back to where he'd had it before the meeting at the caves, if he can do that. The static gives way, eventually, to a station. His retooling of the radio has proven surprisingly effective. From the level of static that's still present, though, the signal can't be coming from the tower. A signal from the tower would be far stronger than that which he's getting, but he's surprised he's even getting something.

A flat accent, American of some ilk, plays havoc with the Arabic. "_Al salaam a'alaykum, ya Sidi Jarrah. Sukran_ for listening to island radio. We told you we'd speak to you again, and we are. You've done a good job with the radio, but we figured you would. You know your way around electronics."

He figures it's best to keep his own questions simple. "Who are you? What is your plan?"

"That would be telling. We know you know your way around getting people to answer things, too, but we can't provide you with those answers without you and your friends coming to some conclusions of your own."

"Conclusions? Like what?"

"Conclusions of what we've seen on the island," Locke's voice breaks through the foliage, and his form follows soon afterwards. He gestures to the radio, smiling vaguely. "I would have thought you were talking to God, Sayid."

A fake smile twists Sayid's face, and he raises a wait-one-minute hand to Locke. At the same time, the voice continues: "Tell your bald friend hello, if you want. We won't keep you longer. You seem to be occupied." The radio disappears into static.

"You know, most people have telephones," Locke tells him obligingly, seeming happy enough to make the observation. He leans on his tracking stick, his face inquisitive. "You use a radio to do the work of a telephone. Interesting concept. And, as I said, I thought you were talking to God."

"I was," Sayid replies as he pulls the earphone out of his ear. "Or close enough. These people are certainly omniscient, anyway – and perhaps omnipotent as well."

That is the wrong thing to say, and Sayid knows it in an instant. Locke's face lights up, and he stares, fascinated, as if Sayid's just revealed some great philosophical truth. _We're not going to be playing tag after Sawyer,_ Sayid suddenly realizes. _We'll wind up heading after the people on the radio, if John gets his hands on the technology. We don't know who they are, where they are, or what resources they have. If this search is foolish, that one would be suicidal._ He has only one choice, and as he presses down, hearing the plastic of the radio's casing snap in between his fingers, the filaments and wires springing out to parts unknown, he shakes his head firmly at Locke. "We are not getting distracted, John. They want us to be distracted. That's why they're doing this."

However, despite Sayid's words, Locke looks anything but convinced. As Sayid lets the last bits of plastic and metal drop beneath him to the forest floor, Locke even looks like he might make a dive for them. "Who's to say that this search isn't a distraction?" the bald man replies.

Sayid stops in his tracks and turns, staring. He can feel his mouth hanging open, and snaps it shut promptly. "It may be," he admits, "but it is a necessary one. Let's finish eating. We'll start moving again in the morning." He turns for the camp, hoping Locke will follow but half-expecting nothing of the sort.


	20. Ain’t That Pretty At All

**XX: Ain't That Pretty at All**

Sawyer's grin only widens. He nods Desmond at the body, his eyes on the other man. Some glorified janitor's easier to look at than a decapitated corpse. "Maybe your buddy was the Headless Horseman, only without a horse. Maybe he got here on his own. A shark took his head - _chomp!_ - and the rest of him walked here on his own."

"Shut up, you damned idiot," Desmond says, almost lackadaisically, and moves for his pistol again. The dog-tags are dropped next to Kelvin's body.

Sawyer can't exactly blame him, but neither can he resist egging on the other man a little. "Maybe he'll get up and walk again. Dance a little Irish jig. It'd be a hell of a sight."

The body does not get up and move towards them, nor, disappointingly enough, does it dance. Sawyer half-suspects it might actually reanimate itself, but he figures telling this to Desmond in a serious manner might not be the best course. Crazy people don't need his encouragement to be even crazier, after all. Nonetheless, he can't help but stare at the headless body for a long, long time even after his wisecracks, feeling strangely transfixed. _Perhaps it's alive. Perhaps it's a trick. Whatever it is, it proves there's something else – _someone_ else – on the island, and that they're close, and that they know where we are._

The thought feels strange, though. If they've been watching, then this whole thing was a setup, and that feels oddly betraying. They could have been saved all this while, and so whatever they might have tried to do was a wasted effort. The journey on the raft itself was a waste, and it only got them in deeper trouble. If only he had known that. He wouldn't have agreed to help those idiots out, then. Not one bit.

So as it is, he hangs out there, staring for a few long moments at the body, before something other than a joke comes to his lips. "So, what do we do now?" He indicates a path forking from the clearing. "Left or right? Or do we stay here and wait 'til they come for us, too? I mean, they've got to know that we'd head this way. So they have to know we're here. So if you want to wait here with Vic Morrow, be my guest. Me, I'm taking off."

He starts for the path to the right, between two avocado trees, grabbing one of the hanging fruits as he goes, but something stops him. It's not Desmond, who does not even move, from what Sawyer's peripheral vision and his hearing tell him. It's not anything specific, really. All that it is is a flat, hissing sound, but it piques his curiosity, making him stop and listen. Just as he's dreaded, the hissing works its way into undulations, the sound starting to swirl, and then the waves of noise start to form specific sounds. Syllables. Words.

_"… It'll come back around."_

Sawyer feels his face tighten, forces it into a grin, even laughs, although it sounds hollow to him. "Funny," he tells the path ahead, shaking his head. "Not buying it twice in a row." He buffs the avocado on his shirt, sliding it into his pocket. It'll ripen later. "I grew out of ghost stories when I was ten. You know, whoever you are, you may want to come out, or Bono here will shoot you. He's a good shot, I'll bet. Well, aside from hitting your computer, but I reckon bygones can be bygones." He glances back to Desmond to see if his guess is right. He's pleased to see that it is.

"Stop talkin' about them, or they'll come out!" Desmond's voice is somewhere between pleading and exasperated.

"Wow. You really think so? I never would have guessed, considering I just told them, 'Come out.' " Sawyer glances back down the path, and he can see something – just up ahead, just out of range of his eyesight – moving. Adrenaline courses through him, and he moves past the avocado trees, thinking, _I really shouldn't be doing this. I should be back there in the clearing, not stalking after ghosts or Ewoks or whatever the hell they are._

"Idiot," Desmond repeats, closer now and sounding more disgusted with him. _At least I've got some accompaniment now, and with a firearm to boot,_ Sawyer thinks. "We're goin' the wrong way, and you're not gonna find anything good down this way."

He tries to make the question sound as offhanded as he can. "How do you know? You know what they are. You know _where_ they are. So what gives?" He keeps walking, although his pace is slower now, each section of words a deliberate step. The whispering picks up again, and he adds, "What is that, anyway? I've been hearin' that for a few weeks now, and you didn't even say a word when I talked back to it. So you hear it too." His pulse pounds in his arms and throat, and his mouth feels dry. "Answers, Desmond. Now."

"I can't give them to you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't," Desmond asserts. He lifts the pistol from its path, bringing it to bear on Sawyer again. "If you want to be healed, you're gonna have to trust me."

"Trust a freak who shanghais me from a place where I was perfectly comfortable, shoots me up with drugs, and likes waving a pistol around in my face," Sawyer tosses back despite himself. It only occurs to him a moment or two later that maybe this might not be the best thing to say. And all the while, those whispers keep getting louder, drumming into his brain with the force of some sort of witch-doctor chant. "That's a hell of a way to create trust. And no way. We're going to find out what this is, and if it's the wrong damn path, then it's the wrong damn path. At least I'll die happy."

Desmond becomes more agitated, sounding yet more urgent. The gun waves a bit more wildly, and Sawyer tenses, doing his best to watch the man's face. That's a better giveaway than his hands that he's going to shoot. Sawyer's been in enough tense situations to know that.

Sawyer has also heard enough babbling that, at first, the man's words evoke a weary sense of sameness: "This is a trick. It's in the manuals. I _know_ it. See, man, it's a trap. We can't go this way, because if we go this way, they've got somethin' here, man, punji sticks, and there's poison on them, and they'll kill you or make you get amputated within a few hours. You think that bullet wound is bad – you ever seen anyone after one of those things gets jabbed into them? It ain't a pretty sight."

Sawyer stops short. He's not sure if it's the mention of the trap or the threat of death that makes him stop, but he doesn't move any further forward. "That's a military thing. Those dog-tags were military. We're on a base."

He watches Desmond's face to see if some flicker of agrement, some involuntary affirmation, crosses the man's face, but none does. Desmond only shakes his head sadly, lowering his pistol by an increment or two. "I wish you were right, man." He gestures Sawyer backwards with the gun, and Sawyer obeys for once. He's out of his league with death traps around him, at least until he can feel a bit better and get his hands on a gun.

"OK, we're not on a base. So what's the manual about?" Sawyer takes another step, too, feeling his head start to swim. "And why'd you get to read the damn thing and we didn't? I would have loved to know the plot before they dropped us off here, believe me."

A strangely downcast turn to Desmond's voice: "There is no plot anymore. They gave up the plot a long time ago, Kelvin says."

"Plot to what?" Sawyer says.

"Now that, I won't tell you." For once, Desmond sounds like he's not going to brook an argument on that topic, and though every fiber of his body wants to argue with this, to question Desmond further, to find out just what he knows and how much he knows it, Sawyer can't run the risk of antagonizing the guy any further if the antagonism won't produce results. Desmond's got the drugs that make his shoulder feel better and keep his head clear, and the gun that could possibly keep both of them alive. So why burn that bridge without a good cause?

They shuffle back to the clearing, that gun waving around all the while, and Sawyer calculates at least four times in the move whether he can grab the pistol out of the guy's hands. Each time, he decides against it. The whispering ceases as soon as they spill into the break in the trees, and he gets a better – or worse, as the case may be – eyeful of Kelvin's corpse. He also gets a glimpse of those dog-tags that Desmond had isolated, and he carefully moves his hand for them, fingers touching metal. The last time he'd grabbed dog-tags, he'd had a crazy guy pull a gun on him, and he expects the same crazy guy to threaten him with the same gun again. This time, however, Desmond does not seem to notice, and Sawyer slides the tags into his pocket.

"So, we're taking the left-hand path, then. Are there traps there?"

"Maybe." Desmond doesn't sound too concerned. "We're not taking that path, though."

"What the hell are we doing, then?"

"Staying here for a few more minutes, 'til dusk. A path will open up then. It's only accessible at dusk, the manual said." Desmond sounds entirely convinced of this, so much so that Sawyer actually believes it himself, for a half-second, before he snickers. The laughter doesn't earn him a friend, to say the least. Instead, it earns him a glare. "Look, man, without me, you'd be lyin' there on that bed, maybe even have lost an arm. So you aren't in a position to distrust me, y'know?"

Some help the guy's been to him, though. All Desmond's done is drag him out here. His arm's not getting better from this journey. It's stopped hurting, but it hasn't healed any. Sawyer doesn't say that. Instead, he says, "So why are you bringing me out here to get healed, then? Nobody grabbed that kid Boone when he went down in the airplane. He wasn't worth much, but I ain't either."

"You can hear 'em. Not all of you can. That's why. They talk, and you guys can hear them. That's worth saving."

The simplicity of the explanation startles him. He thinks, _All I hear is that guy Duckett,_ but decides it's better not to explain that to Desmond. If the guy starts thinking of him as expendable, he just might die all too soon. Better to let the lunatic think he's invaluable, as long as he's not asked to prove it. Instead, he adds, "You can hear them too. They had you. So what do they need us for?"

Something passes over Desmond's face that Sawyer can only label as a haunted look. No words come with it, though. Instead, Desmond gives Kelvin's body a final look, and then moves off to the right. He doesn't head to the path, though. Instead, he heads further to the side of it, lifting up a few tree branches to expose another path. Whereas what they've been traveling on has been dirt, hard-packed earth that looks rarely traveled, what Desmond has revealed is hard and black and tarred. It takes Sawyer a few moments to realize what it is, and when he does, it shocks him. It's pavement.

"Christ," Sawyer breathes, staring. He's half-shocked at the sight, and half-shocked at the fact that his long sojourn in the wilderness has left him unable to recognize even one of the most mundane signs of real civilization. "Where the hell does that lead to?"

"The main facilities," Desmond replies. "Where they must have taken off Kelvin's head."

"Who are 'they'? And facilities for what?"

He receives no answer but a genial wave of the gun, beckoning him on. It feels insane, but what choice does he have? Sawyer shakes his head, exhales slowly, and steps forward on the path, casting a sharp eye out for other signs of weirdness. _What they would need to drive trucks out to some lone clearing for, I'll never know._ He wishes he had his wits about him more, but curiosity compels him to keep moving, and he starts down the path, his booted steps scuffing on the hard surface as he goes.

Already, when they're halfway down the road, Sawyer hears them, the sounds those of heavy industry. Vehicles whir. The air becomes heavy. Machinery roars in precise intervals. He recognizes those sounds. "It isn't a hospital," he says aloud, although his company offers no reply. "It's a power plant. The heart of the island. Goddamn."


	21. For My Next Trick, I’ll Need a Volunteer

**XXI: For My Next Trick, I'll Need a Volunteer**

Every time he closed his eyes, he awoke. London didn't make it easy for a man to sleep. Outside of his hotel room, the traffic blasted its way through roads that received four times the traffic of Grafton Street, and sixteen times the crime of Henry Street. Outdoor markets and the ILAC building were nothing compared to the din that permeated here.

Had he not known better, he would have thought that all this noise was supposed to keep him awake, hold his nerves on a precarious wire so that he could not focus and get a good night's sleep before the race. Perhaps it was all a plot by his competitors. Each time he thought that, he dismissed the idea as so much junk, but every time he wanted to take a nap, the supposition seemed increasingly easy to believe.

On the other hand, perhaps it was those vile protein shakes that they had come out with recently. Sure, they were fantastic for your body, or so the bottle proclaimed, but they tasted like sludge, and he figured they had to be loaded with saccharine and all sorts of chemicals. Perhaps some of those chemicals had gone to his brain, or perhaps he was simply on a sugar high and couldn't sleep. _If I could have made it through medical school, I would have been able to tell,_ Desmond thought. _Then again, if I had made it through medical school, I wouldn't be getting the chance to sleep at night._ Either way, he couldn't win. It was lovely how things like that turned out, absolutely lovely.

–––

London was drowning in signs. Everywhere he looked in Piccadilly, there was a sign, as big as the side of a building and limned in neon, and some small part of him had hoped that they would have some rustic charm, to be for some tea-and-scones shop, but they were nothing useful. All Hollywood movies and globally popular rock bands, stuff about which he could not have cared less. Had Piccadilly ever had any charm of its own? Perhaps it had, but he could not see it now. The signs blocked it. There were always signs, though, everywhere. He didn't need to look to find them.

When he closed his eyes, standing near the fountain, being jostled by some kid about fifteen years too late for the Ramones, he could still see the signs, their electric illumination seeping in through his eyelids. He could never get away from them, and he could never understand them, just like he could never understand London. He could never hope to understand it. Even five years since the move from Wexford, he could not understand the damned place.

"Mr. Cassidy?"

He didn't recognize the name at first. He didn't turn when he should have. It had been a long time since anyone had said his name, and it sounded foreign now, especially in London, where everyone had such Sassenach names. His own was anything but: Desmond Eamonn Cassidy. It sounded like a revolutionary's name, but he liked it – or maybe he liked it for that particular reason.

"Aye?" He made a show of being distracted. It wasn't that much of a stretch, but at least it hid the fact that he had not caught on to the use of his own name. "Pleasure to meet you, sir." He was all smiles, and it felt uncomfortably like fawning. "Good to know you're takin' me seriously. Much obliged." He extended a hand for a shake, sizing up the other fellow. "I hope you won't mind makin' this short though, eh? I've to get to bed tonight. I've a race tomorrow." That, at least, was the truth, even if his name was not.

"Of course, Mr. Cassidy. We appreciate your enthusiasm for the project and, I assure you, we will do our utmost to see that your needs are provided for. Of course, we'll talk briefly and you can run your race." The American accent was smooth, flat. The few American dialect accents Desmond knew, he couldn't place it as. "And our best wishes for that, of course."

Desmond placed both palms together, giving the man a deep nod of thanks. "Much appreciated. But you wanted to meet with me tonight to give me tickets, you'd said?" The American fellow retrieved a small envelope, handing it to him. Desmond could read 'D. Cassidy' on the edge of it, and that pleased him. He'd been chosen; he was Chosen. To make it even better, they had provided his airfare, and as he glanced briefly into the envelope, he saw two tickets, one for coming and one for going. That was a good sign. They were thoughtful enough not to abandon him. "Thanks. Where am I headed?"

"Boston," the American said. He sounded amused, as if because of some private joke. Desmond saw no need to inquire as to the meaning of the joke, simply nodded and took the tickets, sliding them into his pocket. The amusement nagged at him, though, and even if he couldn't ask, he hoped an explanation would be forthcoming. The American continued, "You'll stay there for a week or so. You'll get information about what you're supposed to do there just before you fly out. _Slán agat._"

"_Slán leat,_" Desmond responded automatically. It occurred to him only a moment or two later: _The American knows Irish!_ He wanted to follow after the fellow, ask him just how he knew the language, pry answers out of him, but he could do nothing of the sort. The American was already walking away. He had nothing more to do but hang out here, maybe get some beer – though if he could find a decent brew in England, he'd be surprised; they knew nothing of Guinness – and then go home drunk in time to almost oversleep the race tomorrow. He ran better that way.

And then he would head to Boston. He had been to the States a few times, and it would be nice to go back. He wondered why they wanted him there, though. For all that he had heard, they wanted him for some sort of scientific thing, and if they wanted someone in Boston for that, they could have _found_ someone in Boston. They could have found a real doctor or scientist there, couldn't they?

He glanced up towards one of the signs. Oceanic Air told him to _Fly upon the wings of the wind._ He recognized that from something. The Bible? Shakespeare? Whatever it was, he would do that. And he would trust that the wind would land him in the right place after Boston. it would have to. They had told him it would, and they were always right.

–––

He had flown, but the others had soared. The marathon had not turned out as he had expected, but he had the real race to look forward to. Once he got out of Boston, he would race, and win. This new airport was low and dark, like Heathrow, and sort of disappointing-looking, but they were waiting for him in the Ambassadors' Club lounge of Oceanic to give him further directions. Desmond wondered what there was here in Boston that he was supposed to be searching out, but tried his best not to fixate on it. He would find out. All he needed to do was be patient, and he would be provided with the answers he so desperately wanted.

Terminal E of Logan Airport was the international terminal, and that relieved him somewhat. He didn't have far to walk. His legs had been hurting a bit since the marathon, and though he had done enough conditioning to ensure he wouldn't get shin-splints, he was a bit worried. So he used the moving walkway for the first time in his life, feeling disastrously lazy for so doing, but getting to the door quicker than he might have expected from walking outside of the walkway. _Perhaps I've traveled ahead in time,_ he thought, and then dismissed that as crazy. However insane it might have been had he said it aloud, though, he had to admit that the thought pleased him.

They were there waiting for him, indeed. He could see a file folder, with someone's picture sticking out of it, and what looked like – travel brochures? Australia? Someplace tropical, to be sure – also nearby. At least they would be sending him someplace nicer than Boston. They also had what looked like a contract, and he wondered at the particulars of it before deciding that it didn't matter. They had chosen him, and he could not afford to be particular. Wherever they needed him to go, he would go there, and if it allowed him the opportunity to spend a few days on a tropical island, so much the better. He had always wanted to take a vacation to someplace like that.


	22. Turbulence

**XXII: Turbulence**

It is just like the Guard. The first hour is always the best and the worst at once. Those initial sixty minutes are spent in anticipation, waiting for something – anything – to attack. Guns are at the ready, shoulders are tense, faces are taut. Even Ana-Lucia is quiet. Then, their strength drains after the first hour and they start to go slack, the rattling of various accouterments increasing, the pace slower.

They do not talk. What can be said? Complaining about the heat will not make it stop, and Sayid figures there is nothing else anyone can think about. The heat makes them forget all other topics, after that tense first hour. But at least they move, and he can be pleased at that.

They break out of the clearing that morning and keep moving, but the clearing bothers him. It bothers him more since they've left. There is something there that he did not have the opportunity to find out. It remains there. He only senses he's left something behind now, a few hours after they've left, and he has not picked it up in time.

It's nothing dangerous – not exactly. It's different. It's the way things went. It has been too easy. It is as if their presence last night was expected, the trail that they have been left is deliberate, the tracks have been laid down to lead them in a specific direction. It is hard to pinpoint, but he does not trust it anymore, and as he watches the party move on slowly, marking every third or fourth track with the stick, he begins to wonder if they're not playing directly into someone's hands.

Though he cannot admit it aloud, he has not liked this escapade from the start. It is not what they have done so far. It is what they have not done. They should have found Sawyer by now, with whomever kidnapped him, and they have done nothing of the sort. Allegedly, he was the one who was capable to handle this. He assured Jack of that, and the people whom he's currently marshaling. They are producing no results, though, and he cannot deny that such a lack is disappointing. He is used to being able to find what he needs to find, and he suspects the others are experiencing the same disappointment.

For whatever reason, though, he's spared Ana-Lucia's complaints about the issue. Perhaps it's the heat. Perhaps it's the call to duty he'd given her. Whatever the reason, she is silent and determined, and that relieves him. Eko's lack of words were expected, but Locke and Kate are silent, too. Not a word has been said about the radio. Apparently Locke doesn't feel it needs to be discussed in front of people. Sayid can't fault him for that, but he is not looking forward to the conversation that is sure to come.

Freed from the burden of giving orders to a quartet of people who have no reason whatsoever to listen to him, Sayid concentrates on keeping watch. He spots signs, but he cannot be sure if they are human or animal. Torn branches and trampled plants could be either, and he does not wish to distract the trackers from their current mission just to have them hunt boar or deer. They must stay focused. Much as he despises doing so, he must ignore his own curiosity. He puts it out of his mind as best he can, and keeps walking along at the snail's pace they've necessarily adopted.

–––

Maybe they're all too tired. Maybe the heat's getting to them. Maybe it's the fruitlessness of the travel. In any case, when they break for lunch, he feels anything but stunned at what is brought in.

"He's moving back the way we came," Ana-Lucia announces as she pushes forward something so thin and wasted-looking that Sayid is surprised it's still human. Her technique leaves something to be desired, but Sayid is impressed to see that whatever she's escorting is alive, and he gives her a smile he hopes looks avuncular, pleased with a protégé. He suspects she'll view it as mere patronizing, but is relieved when she offers no reaction. "I caught him poking around in the bushes off that way." She beckons towards a small copse, her free hand slapping against her side with the force of the movement when she drops it. She shoves the thin fellow forward and he stumbles, dropping to the ground.

Whether it's from lack of ability to move or from simple fear, the man stays there on the ground. Sayid notes how ragged he looks, like a street beggar, and he wants to help him up, but he doesn't dare do it. The first words that spring to mind and voice are old words indeed: "Stand up. I am not an imam. This is not prayer." He beckons the man up, his manner sharp.

This only scares the thin man more, who starts mumbling something unintelligible. From nearby, Sayid can see Eko turn away, distracted by something or not wishing to participate. Locke draws closer, interested, and Sayid smiles at him to assure everything is all right, thinking, _Why can't you be more like your fellow man of religion?_

He extends a hand to the pauper, who takes it, and lifts the man to his feet, repeating, "Stand up. No one will kill you. We're all too tired for that." He can hear the dialogue already beginning, the words familiar from capture of numerous poor resistance fighters. "Where are you from? Where are you going? Who are you? Are there others like you around?"

There is no answer. Sayid sighs, shaking his head. He wants answers. He stares hard at the other man, meeting his eyes. There is no spark there. The man is an idiot. They can get nothing from him. The watery gaze that meets him bears no intelligence, no answers, and he steps away from the Other, thinking bitterly, _All this search, and this is what we get, a fellow who can barely understand English and cannot speak it. Perhaps I should try talking to him in Arabic._

But what can he do, really? There is not much to do with fifty kilograms of Other that can't talk back to you. He really should keep the man, by the rules. His crew might not be pleased about getting a different result, but he is tired. He is not up to the rules of war anymore. He cannot take their prisoner and winch a truth from him that the fellow is otherwise incapable of giving.

"Let him go."

He can hear his acquaintances gasp, and it sounds like they all do so in a single voice. Even Eko turns around, startled.

Sayid's voice grows louder. "Get him out of here. Now!"

He glances towards Ana-Lucia, nodding her to do so, signaling her to take the man away. She doesn't move. He should not have expected her to, he realizes a moment later. It probably took a lot out of her to avoid simply killing the man, and he can ask nothing more of her. So he gestures Eko to do so, nodding at him in an expression of thanks.

"You let him go?" Ana stalks over to him, her hands on her hips, defiance writ large in every muscle of her body.

_This is a game. You know perfectly well that I let him go._ Sayid simply nods.

"Why did you do that? He'll go back to wherever he came from and tell them about us! He'll let them know what we're doing, how many weapons we have! How can you do that!" Her words only make her grow further aghast.

"I don't want to collect people that are of no use to us. He will only slow us down, and I could not kill him. Could you?" Sayid waits to see what her reaction is, and feels at least marginally pleased to note that the young woman shakes her head. "They know where we're going anyway. We're tracking Sawyer. They would have to be quite stupid not to guess where we are at this very moment, and where we're headed." Ana is furious. Her face glistens, and she looks on the verge of screaming at him. He wants to say something to help her, but all that comes out is, "You did well by not killing him."

With that, he leads them into the trap that he now knows awaits them, a decided grimness to the endeavor. There is nowhere else to go, however, and they cannot go back. They can only hope to be prepared when they meet up with whatever awaits them in the jungle, whatever lurks beyond, calculating their moves and responding like a master chess player.

The man was a decoy. Sayid is sure of that. The man was of no use to them, too. Killing him would have made no difference, and they were doomed as soon as the fellow came upon them. In a way, he's glad Ana-Lucia uncovered him. At least they are aware of the threat now. He can only wonder how long they've been watched, and what purpose the Others had in not attacking them overnight, or at some easier time.

He stops to talk with each of his charges, asking them, "Are you armed? Are you sure? Don't test-fire your gun," he adds as smoothly as he can do, hoping the small current of dread he feels for the impending firefight has not worked its way into his voice. "We want to fight on ground which we choose. But are you ready?" He is pleased that, for all of them, the answer is yes. "Be on your guard," he says. "If you see anything, alert us."

–––

The first burst hits behind them and thunks into a banana tree, splinters of wood flying everywhere from the impact of the bullets. Sayid hits the ground, trying to catch his breath and to stay alive. It had come unexpectedly despite his preparedness, and the thought flies through his head, _Fifteen years since I was in a combat situation. Apparently it shows._ He does not look around him towards his friends. Nobody is calling out, and no blood is on him. They are all right. He hopes they will remain all right in the minutes to come.

_There is no one in charge,_ he realizes. _Someone should be. _I_ should be._ He need not command a squad of four, all with combat training, though. He leaves them to the shooting, and from what he can hear from the burst of rifle fire from his own side, they are managing all right.

Without a long-range gun, Sayid's job is to mark the enemy's weapons. He squints through the foliage, trying his best to make out the shooter. The main weapon seems to be located off there, in the distance, just to a little left of them, and a stream of bullets issues steadily from somewhere in that area, flying overhead and hitting low branches and tall ferns, not stopping, as if the gunner's finger has gotten caught in the trigger. The gunfire is long and loud, and that is unusual. No soldier would fire in that manner that he knows, be they American or Iraqi. They must have ammunition to spare and no fear of a return hit.

A bullet comes close, but it does not hit him. A second and then a third, but he feels nothing. The sound roars around him, the steady volleys of gunfire nearly deafening, the individual cracks flat and unimpressive but the net effect certainly uncomfortable listening.

One of his gunners – he is not sure who has the guns anymore, and only knows that he does not – fires off a short round from their side, and the answering report from the other side is much longer, much surer. He hunkers down amongst the ferns, knowing they're desperately outmatched, wishing he had some way to communicate with the people back at the hatch. They will run out of ammunition in short order, and they will be dead or worse. He has seen this happen to too many people, and he has been at the end of this journey for too many others. It serves him right that he should experience the same.

_Surely God loves those who fight in His way in ranks, as if they were a firm and compact will._ The Koran quote, unbidden, unremembered since lessons at the mosque in childhood, comes to him now, and he realizes: They must not back down. They must act in unison, and they must stay strong. They are bidden to do that.

It is then that the gunfire stops. For a few seconds, there is nothing, only a small breeze. And then the rain starts to fall.


	23. Sentimental Hygiene

**XXIII: Sentimental Hygiene**

_Mo chara, nár lagaí Dia do lámh._

It is written upon the first page of the book, and Libby stares at it for a long moment, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into English words if only given half a chance. She doesn't know what the language is. It looks like nothing she's seen before. She turns the book over a few times and opens it up, flipping through a few pages. English words greet her, and she recognizes them with a rush of relief.

She glances towards the black man still hunched over the computer, holding onto the book. "You don't have to keep on taking shifts here, Michael. You know that, right? You can rest once in a while."

"I will. In a while." Michael doesn't look up from the computer.

Setting the book down, she walks over to him, studying him. He's too intent on the computer to realize she's moving his way until she gets close, but she doesn't think that it would be right to ask. "I know you're missing your son, but focusing on your work down here won't help as much as you think it will. You need to talk to people." She sends him a quirky grin, adding a bit pointedly, "People _besides_ psychologists."

He looks up, startled, runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are wide, as if she's startled him despite her gradual approach. "What? Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. I'll be out of here soon, you know?" He glances back towards the screen for a moment, as if he can't bear to miss whatever it says. "Yeah," he repeats distractedly, his fingers twitching above the keys.

"You want to find him," she states, and he looks at her as if she'd have to be crazy to even pose the statement. It's supposed to go unsaid, apparently. She holds up a hand before he can tell her this, adding, "So go out there and find him. You can't be down here staring at a computer screen. You won't find him there."

"But I – "

She lifts a brow, looks at him askance.

" – I don't know where to start looking for him. And I'm not any good in the woods, you know?"

"So, find someone who is," she states simply, settling into the couch across from the computer. "They can't _all_ have taken off with Sayid, could they?" She draws her legs up onto the sofa, relaxing. It feels good to relax, and she stares up at the ceiling. The presence of electricity is more than welcomed, and the harsh lighting feels comforting, strangely enough. "Find someone who is and go out and find Walt. The more you wait down here, the more panicked you'll get. We have to resolve our problems on our own."

She goes back to her book, and Michael back to whatever he is doing behind the computer monitor. She wonders at that, for she hears no clatter of keys, no sound that would signify that he is actually engaged in doing something useful over at the computer. Instead, he just sits there, still as stone, and she watches him out of the corner of her eye as she reads.

_The clearing is where disposal is to occur. This is the furthest extent of the facilities, except for the hatches. On your travels from the clearing to the main buildings, whether you are driving or walking, please have your passes with you identifying you as a Hanso employee. If you do not have those passes, you will not be permitted entry to the main buildings._

She turns another page, and then a third:

_If you are in an observation station, please stay there barring communication from Hanso or the Initiative. If you do decide to venture out, please time your ventures so that the stations are maintained, and please do not go anywhere that is not marked in this manual. Failure to abide by these rules will lead to your being discontinued from the project._

She turns back to stare at those foreign words, but they're too unintelligible. Somehow, she doesn't think 'do' means 'do,' from the strangeness of the other words around it. Whatever the case, she decides, she may as well keep the book. Perhaps she will show it to the others from the tail section when they get back from their little adventure. Maybe one of them can make sense of it. They have surprised her over the past month and a half, in ways that would make speaking a foreign language not much of a shock, indeed.

Michael remains there at the computer, staring at it. She feels sorry for him, but whatever can be done won't resolve things. He will still think about Walt unless he goes out and finds him. She pushes herself from the couch, sticking the book in her knapsack and telling him, "I'm going out. Are you going to be all right down here?" She doesn't receive much of an answer, but she wasn't expecting one.

Libby heads out the hatch door into the sunlight, and almost runs headlong into Jack. A surprised little noise issues from her, and she steps aside, exclaiming, "Jack! Michael's still in there," She points to the insides of the hatch. "I hope you're going to replace him."

Jack waits a moment before nodding. It's a strange pause, she notes, but she does not comment. "Yeah, I'm going to replace him. It's been a long while, hasn't it?"

"At least twelve hours. I don't think the poor guy has slept."

"Who was supposed to be with him?"

"Sayid, I think." When Jack nods in acknowledgment, she continues, "Well, he's not here to do it. But I think someone should be with Michael. I mean, he's not doing too well, and I can't say I blame him. Can you make sure someone's with him in future, just to watch him?"

"He won't like being spied on," Jack points out, "but fine. You're right. Will do." His eyes settle on her knapsack for a moment, and she wants to explain to him about the book, to see if he knows the language, but now doesn't seem the time. She already has him worried about Michael. She won't burden him further. "And you?" Jack continues suddenly, his voice breaking in on her thoughts. "How are you doing?"

She lets out a long, slow sigh. "I'm… I'm all right. Thanks. But I should let you get to work down there."

He doesn't answer, letting himself into the hatch, and she turns and starts for the beach. Now that she has had the opportunity to rest for once, in a reasonably comfortable pallet if not a real bed, walking distances seems a lot easier, and she makes it down to the beach in good time, knapsack swinging all the way.

In a way, she is not surprised when she sees the Reyes boy. The way things have gone, with the old couple together, it stands to reason that things would continue to be strange, and besides, she is too amused by the coincidence to be too shocked that he is here. He is helping Rose with the laundry, the two chatting amicably, and she hates to break it up, but she does. "Hey," she says simply, settling down near them, pushing Hurley's backpack a little out of the way to make room for herself. "Need help?"

As wide as Michael's eyes had looked before, Hurley's are even wider. He makes a surprised little noise, recognition on his face, but doesn't say anything about it. Rose's head is bent towards the laundry, and at the realization that he won't have to explain, Hurley looks relieved now. "If you want, yeah," the young man says. "There's a lot of laundry yet to be done. You guys wore those clothes every day, didn't you?" He lifts a shirt from the pile of dirty clothes, screwing up his face in disgust. "I mean, dude, it's pretty obvious." Despite his words, he studies her closely, as if she's a riddle he has to figure out.

She'll chat with him later about it. As it is, she puts a finger to her lips, nodding towards Rose. The older woman looks up as Libby drops the gesture, smiling towards her. "We'll get you some new clothes, though," she offers. "There's plenty. I hear there's a lot of laundry stuff down in the Hatch. I don't go down there, but maybe Hurley can get you some new clothes or something, couldn't you?"

Hurley shrugs. "Sure. Be glad to." He rises to his feet. "You want to come with me? I don't know what size you wear."

"If Rose is going to be all right with all this work," Libby cautions the young man, glancing towards the woman. She's waved on, though, Rose smiling up towards both of the, and so Libby rises to her feet, picking up the pair of jeans she'd been scrubbing at and hanging them on the line to dry. Hurley clambers to his feet, ready to follow after her, and reaches down to pick up his backpack and strap it on his back.

She had expected it wouldn't take him long to ask why she's here, and it certainly doesn't. Once he's out of earshot of Rose, he stabs a finger at her, telling her, "You – I remember you. You were with the shrinks. I don't remember. Were you one?"

"A 'shrink,' no. A clinical psychologist, yes." She smiles towards him. "It was just after I'd moved to California. I recognize you, too. But you seem," she pauses, hesitating, before deciding she may as well say it, "Better. Happier."

"Yeah, well." Hurley grimaces at something, but doesn't say what it is. Instead, he changes his mind, visibly saying something different from what he had intended at first. "I am better. The island sucks, but it's good for stuff like that, you know? You can't worry about a lot of things here, because there's so much to worry about that you'd never stop worrying. And you can't be sad and sit around hating yourself, because there's so much that needs doing."

Libby looks ahead where the Hatch is visible. Jack and Michael will be there, and she hopes Hurley and she won't disturb them. Jack doesn't strike her like a man who likes being startled, so hopefully their presence there won't affect things – and, even more hopefully, Jack ought to have sent Michael to get some sleep, and then to be out amongst people. If Michael is going to set out after Walt, and she has no illusions that he will, then he needs to be thinking with a clearer head. Hopefully Jack will provide that for him. "It sounds like you've found yourself here," she says distractedly to Hurley as she keeps moving.

He snorts at that. "Dude – I mean, Doctor – "

"Libby," she supplies with a grin.

"Libby," he takes her suggestion, "John Locke, he says exactly the same thing. He says he's found himself on the island. Man, if I'm like him, then I'm crazier than I was," he confides in her, his voice low.

Despite all her training, she can't resist grinning at that, shaking her head. "That's so wrong. You weren't crazy even then. Just depressed. You know that."

He pauses, turning to face her, stopping at the edge of the hatch. His voice sinks even quieter: "You didn't tell anyone, did you? I mean, about the mental institution? I mean, there are a few people who know, but I don't – I don't want it advertised." He looks uncomfortable, and gives her such a piteous look that she instantly feels sorry for him. "I mean, they're my friends, you know? And, man, I don't think they would be if, uh, if they knew."

"Not at all," she assures him. He remains unconvinced, and Libby realizes she'll have to extend some trust to him. She'll have to tell him something that will reassure him that she can keep confidences, or at least that they are more even on the score. She may as well approach him first about the issue. "I found a book down there. I think it might mean something. I'll let you read it, and then we can each have shared a secret with one another. Sound good?"

"Sounds awesome," Hurley replies readily. "Let's see."

She moves to extract the book from her knapsack. She gives him the book, and watches as he turns over the cover, studying it thoughtfully, his brows drawing together as if he's trying to make sense of it. He looks towards the Hatch door, where the I Ching symbol is displayed next to the 'Quarantine' warning, and then the book cover where it is shown in equal prominence. "If you can figure out the writing on the inside cover, tell me. I have no idea what it means," she admits. "And in any case, we're even, then. Now, about those extra clothes?"


	24. The Factory

**XXIV: The Factory**

It is the same word, but each time he says it, it sounds different. "Sonofabitch. _Son_ofabitch. Sonofa_bitch_." Sawyer says it over and over, enough times that it sounds like an incantation, low enough so that his traveling companion can't hear. What a fantastic time for him to start going loopy again, right as he's about to get answers. He should ask for more medicine. He should swallow his pride and just ask, but that wouldn't be right.

He needs to be in control of the situation. If he focuses long enough and hard enough, he just can do it, too, and he lengthens his stride, deliberately planting each foot down on the hard macadam. It echoes into his brain, jolting him each time, and he wishes there were trees to grab. A handrail. Something.

He can't go much further like this, he knows, but the gray bulk that rises before him reassures him. He can make it. He will make it. He steels his shoulders and presses on, his legs tight and rigid-feeling. They might just snap in two if he steps too hard, but that's the only way that he can tell that his feet are landing anymore. Otherwise, he just might lose his footing, it feels, even without a root or rock lying in his path to trip him. That would look bad. He can't look bad.

_Pull yourself together. You've done plenty of things you haven't liked before. One walk with a bullet in your shoulder won't make a damn bit of difference._ And he has to come off like something better than a savage or an idiot, so he straightens his shoulders. As he does so, he feels uncomfortably tall, all bony angles and lanky limbs that just won't work right anymore.

He needs a drink of water.

"So who are these guys? And why the hell didn't they rescue us? And why did they damn well shoot me and take the kid? And what connection have they – you – got with Jack? And why are we going to a goddamn power plant to get my shoulder healed? And what the hell did you shoot me up with?" He asks a barrage of questions, hoping at least one will be answered. Any one would be good. Maybe if he asks the right question, he'll forget how thirsty and fuzzy-feeling he is.

He doesn't get answers, though. He gets asked a question right back. "Kid? What kid?" From the suddenness of the inquiry, the surprised sound of it, Sawyer figures Desmond isn't hiding anything there. The Irishman's eyes are wide, in an almost comically exaggerated look of shock. "I was thinkin' there were only adults up there."

"Uh-uh. A kid. He got grabbed by them bastards. I got shot for it. The end." There is no reason to rehash the details of it. He may as well play it close to the vest – if not for the sake of secrecy, then at least for the sake of not hearing the freak compliment him over something he screwed up on, anyway. He can feel himself leaning forward a bit, starting to stagger.

There's nothing to brace himself on even still, but somehow, he keeps walking. Perhaps it's his curiosity about what lies beyond. Perhaps it's the fact that, if they weren't being watched before, they're definitely being watched now, even as they near the cluster of buildings. _Christ, what if I can't make it to the buildings?_ What would they think? What would happen to him? He figures that he can't afford to find out, and tries to make his walk as steady as possible.

"Were there _supposed_ to only be adults on that plane, Desmond? Why?"

"You ask too many questions, man. You'll get more answers if you don't make them want to shoot you, too."

Sawyer smiles thinly, letting out a dry, "Right." He even tries for a smirk, but he's too hazy-feeling to achieve it as successfully as he would have liked, it would seem, for he can feel his mouth make the slightest effort at turning up in a grin before giving up, the upturn subsiding. He squints towards the building, but it's started to swim by now. Maybe that's just the heat. He lifts a hand to his face to wipe his eyes, clear them, and he can feel his fingers trembling.

He needs more medicine.

He can't bring himself to ask, though. If the stuff was given to him to help him, then he doesn't deserve more unless he gets it without asking. _Two boxes of stuff from Magnolia Street, Jimmy. That's all you get._ He had taken one, and he had done fine after then. Just fine. So he'd do fine with just one dose of medicine. He was lucky to even have that. Besides, the other guy hasn't even noticed. Leave it to the crazy speed freak to be put in charge of ensuring that he makes it to the island's center. If that had been an order given from someone else, clearly they hadn't thought it out. He has to smile at that, and he can feel his chapped lips crack and sting from the expression.

"To answer your question," Desmond cuts in, and Sawyer thinks, _Finally_, "we're goin' to the goddamn power plant, as you put it, because that's where they've the resources to deal with your shoulder. And I am feelin' generous enough to take you there, though I've been wonderin' why myself for a while."

Even as dazed as he is, Sawyer can tell that last part's not quite the truth. He doesn't care, though. Not at the moment. At the moment, he needs some water, some rest, the bullet wound taken care of, and if that happens here, it happens here. He'll deal with the rest later, when he's competent. Still, something nags at him, and if he's being taken to deal with the bullet, who knows when he'll get the chance to ask again?

"J-Jack." Christ, he's stuttering. He shakes his head, annoyed, but can't try the word again. He hasn't got the effort for it. "How d'you know 'im?" He can hear his voice starting to slip further, and it's embarrassing, but it's not embarrassing enough for him to take another stab at the words. He needs to conserve his energy. He needs to keep as much strength as he's got, and not waste it on trying to make his words come out exactly right. He stumbles a bit, but if Desmond slows down his pace, Sawyer doesn't notice.

"We met. A few times."

"Yeah. You said." He pauses, trying to figure out which question to ask. There are so many, and he is so confused as to how words work anymore. And, Lord, if his shoulder isn't starting to kill again. "How?"

"In person." Desmond sounds amused at that, and Sawyer thinks, _If I could punch him for that, he'd deserve it._ The Irishman pauses a moment, and then adds, "I was sent to find him. And apparently he was sent to find me here."

"Who sent y'all?" Sawyer's not sure if he means Desmond or Jack, but he's not really sure that it matters, either. It's fine, though.

He needs to keep walking.

This conversation is bringing them closer to the entryway of the gray building, big metal factory doors that lie set in the metal building. He can hear more machines now, chugging along like some sort of locomotive collection, and he shakes his head as if to make the sounds of the machinery stop. They keep on, though, drumming incessantly, and he can hear his ears start to ring, too. For a moment, the thought breaks through, crystal clear: _First my sight, then my hearing. I can't feel the ground, either, so that's touch gone, too. Three senses down. Two to go. And then I'll be dead. Out here. And nobody will know, and nobody will care, because nobody's come looking for me anyway, because they all think I'm not worth the rescue, and, God, I can't blame them._

And then he's back in the real world, or at least what he can only guess is the real world, all blurry and moving past him as he walks, and he can hear Desmond make another sound of disgust with him, like a student that just can't grasp the answer to a very simple arithmetic problem. For a moment, there's no answer. Then, Desmond is apparently seized by a sudden need to unburden himself on someone:

"You're thinkin' we're on the same team. We aren't. We've met a few times, like I said, but he doesn't know nothin' about any of it. He's as thick as you about all of it. The idea was to suss him out, see if he could be of some help, but he wasn't havin' none of it, so they said that we ought to bring him along anyway. Said he knew too much already for us to just let him drop from the whole yoke. And they said he'd never run into me, anyway. I must've been daft to believe that, aye?" For the first time since they started down the pavement, Desmond turns to look at him, studying him for a moment. "You aren't lookin' too good."

Sawyer laughs aloud. "No shit." His laughter sounds hollow, weak, and he hates the sound of it. He has the feeling Desmond said something important there, but he can't quite clock onto it. Something about Jack again. _The hell with Jackass._ "How's about another speed hit, huh?" That wasn't asking, was it? That was a demand. It's all right to demand things, as long as he doesn't ask politely.

"Can't," Desmond says, his voice sounding clipped. "Didn't take enough to spare it now, and not for someone else, anyway. You'll be inside and better soon enough. Just a few moments, now."

"What do _you_ need it for? You're not injured or nothin'," Sawyer mumbles, feeling himself keel forward again. He swallows, but now his throat won't work right, and it messes with his voice, too, makes it constricted-sounding. "And what are you gonna say to them? 'Here, I found this guy in the jungle, you know, that plane crash that you guys have been messing with for the last two months?' Yeah, that'll go well for me. I…" He shakes his head and shuts up. He doesn't have the strength to keep chatting anymore, and his voice is giving out anyway.

He'll get the answers later. As it is, he has to struggle to walk, and as he hits the outside wall of the factory, he just sort of sinks against it, his legs and his eyes and his ears and his voice giving way all at once. He sees movement around him, but it's all a big gray blur, just like the building, and he can't process it enough to do anything about it. Even if he wanted to, the reasserted pain in his shoulder is enough to tell him that maybe he should hedge his bets now and wait and see where they're taking him. Sawyer does his best to remain conscious if not alert and, for a while, he succeeds. He lies there while they congregate around him, feeling like the animal downed in the hunt.

And then he feels himself being lifted or dragged – he can't tell which, because he can't feel the ground – and he's conscious of the shift in light when he crosses the threshold of the building, and all he can think is, _Stay awake, you dumb bastard. Stay awake, if you do anything. Try to figure out what bits and pieces you can._ But hell if that works, because he's hearing that ringing grow louder, and though there are voices around him and they must be speaking English, he can't understand it, and though they don't hit him, his head feels like it's broken into a million pieces, and when the blackness yawns open to swallow him, he free-falls into it, weightless and thoughtless and careless for once.

He needs nothing now.


	25. Ourselves to Know

**XXV: Ourselves to Know**

"We have already lost a few, and we stand to lose more. We had figured on violence, but not this, the way that they have started to decimate our ranks, and we have to take precautions now, batten down the hatches – oh, good. You're laughing. You get the joke. That's good. You understand, though, that it's not entirely a joke. This is serious business. We could fall apart if we do not figure out how they think and plan ahead. We must know. They will be too much of a danger, without the proper information.

"We have planned for this, and our plans are finally under way. For all of our science, it amounts to nothing more than high school lab reports without proper verification. We can only verify with live specimens, and we have all accepted the risk that brings to us. Our controls are already there. They have not found them all yet. They will not find them all. They will turn on each other before they start to suspect what the whole of it is, and if that is how they will result, then that is how they will result. We are powerless to prevent that, and we owe it to scientific research not to intervene.

"Surely you knew that this would be a tricky thing, yes? To find so many people from all over the place, to round them all up and bring them here – that took some planning. Some cooperation. This initiative can only do well, and they have already signed their lives away to us in some form or another. We owe nothing to them, and they have already agreed. Each one of them. Some by murder, some by committing acts that draw the attention of the law in lesser, subtler ways – but they all have relinquished their right to freedom in some fashion or another.

"What? Why do you care? You are sorry for the deaths, as are we all, but deaths happen. Such a thing is a regrettable but sometimes necessary occurrence in scientific experiments, and while we had taken precautions, can we prevent the falling of a plane through no fault of our own, the firing of a gun through sheer happenstance? We cannot. We are playing God. We are not God. We can do nothing but watch, observe, record.

"Besides, how much of a loss was it, really? They were blanks, the boy and girl. There was nothing to be had from them, so there is nothing to be done for them. Why should we waste our efforts on a pair of fools with less ability in their brains than that little boy has in his little finger? I trust you understand the theory of conservation of resources. That is why we have operatives out there – to do the work that we cannot do. We can make more, too, if the situation requires. We have already tested the potential for this, and our _spiuni baro_, as he liked to call himself, managed to get it to work. It is regrettable – yes, that word again – that he had to die in the process. However, his mission was a success. His target is simply unaware. Given time, though, and the proper trigger, the success will be proven.

"We must lose no more, though. We must isolate ourselves from this possibility, give ourselves some insurance. We have it now. The ones who can go looking for people will all go looking for people. The father for his child, and the others for the hick. That leaves them with a camp consisting of people who dare not lift a hand, our plant, and our trigger. Things are working out nicely, despite the losses, so, you see, you need not worry. Our lives are expendable. So are theirs."


	26. Desperadoes Under the Eaves

**XXVI: Desperadoes Under the Eaves**

Priestley. Dalton. Davy. Faraday.

They all had such English names, and as he roamed through the floor, checking his watch every so often, Sayid was struck by the culture of it. Science sprung from culture indeed, but the way agriculture on the floor below led to chemistry here was simply impressive. Sayid had to give the British credit for one thing: They knew how to produce scientists. He wondered if perhaps Iraq could produce the same, given time. Certainly Britain had recently had its share of troubles, too. Maybe Iraq could learn something from the scientific breakthroughs the English seemed to routinely make during adversity.

He had come here through the South Kensington line, heading through an Edwardian tunnel that again seemed quintessentially British, and he figured that was the route that Nasim likewise had taken. Perhaps the trains were delayed. He had said to the younger man to meet after lunch, but the _jahsh_ had not yet arrived.

Nasim simply did not understand that time was of the essence. He sighed, paced the floor, stepped aside from a school group heading through the floor with universal looks of boredom. _The Flight Lab is upstairs,_ he thought, recalling at least a little of the map on the ground floor. _To a child, chemistry would never compare to wind tunnels and hot-air balloons._

The docent guiding along the children smiled at him reflexively, and he felt himself smile back. She was a pretty girl, young and smart, her sallow Caucasian complexion livened by makeup – but not much, not enough to make her look cheap. He had heard the lecture she had given the children, and it had pleased him. The details of chemistry she had given were correct. She probably was a university student. There were so many universities here. For a moment, he entertained the idea of maybe talking to her after she was done with her tour of ten-year-olds.

And then the thought hit him: _Nadia would not want that._ He felt his smile drift away, heard the clatter and chatter of the children as they scaled the stairs to the next floor, and let the possible date slip through his fingers. Nadia waited for him, and she was somewhere in Great Britain. Of that, he was certain. Besides, there were standards, and Nadia was worth the standards. He would not waste the chance to find her on some English girl that could never compare on such a level.

A short blurb on Faraday's lines of force attracted his attention, and he read it silently, his hands clasping behind his back. It was well-written, clear and concise, and he felt some gratitude towards the country. As wrong as England was about many things, at least they paid enough respect to education to give the sciences proper treatment. _If only they had more respect for themselves, perhaps we could reach an understanding._

He knew that would never happen, though. Not any more. Not with the attacks across the Atlantic. There was to be no more understanding between America and Iraq, and he was sure there would be none here, if not for the resident Pakistani and Arab population. He had heard rumors nonetheless, though, and they were rumors enough to make him doubt his course, although he had never swayed from it.

Thank God Nadia was here in London, and not in America. Getting into Britain had not been the easiest thing in the world, but getting into the United States, from all he had heard, would be even worse. The process would be arduous at best, criminal at worst, and he had done nothing thus far to warrant such treatment. He didn't relish the idea. He could see things all going wrong for him, and he would be sent back to Iraq, Nadia just barely outside of his reach, the security he had with her denied. For a moment, he felt a deep jolt of sadness, as electric as Faraday must have found the chemical ley-lines.

"_Ya Bek Jarrah!_ Mr. Jarrah!" Apparently Nasim was making sure that he heard his own name. Sayid turned to face the young man, whose face was lit up with excitement. That did not bode well for what Nasim had asked of him. The meeting had been arranged here because it was quiet, and Sayid suspected something was about to be asked of him that he ought to, by all rights, refuse to do. The young man had some foolish ideas in his head, and Sayid knew all too well what came of that when others tried to inveigle him in their plans.

_For God's sake, I hope he doesn't salute me,_ Sayid thought. He turned, all smiles, towards the boy. "_Ya 'Ammo Hammud,_" he responded, waiting for the youth to close the distance between them. "You're exactly four minutes, eight seconds, and fifteen milliseconds late."

"Blame the South Kensington. It was delayed. Some fool threw up and they had to clean it up, so everything was bollocks. You would think if you grow up in a city whose people get around with an Underground, you'd learn to ride the bloody thing." Nasim's Received Pronunciation and slang startled Sayid, but if he noticed the older man's shock, the younger one made no indication. "You're so punctual, aren't you? I suppose that comes from," and here Nasim broke off, pausing, an embarrassed grin flitting across his face as he had to cover, "your past. It's nice to meet you, though. You come well-recommended."

_Exactly the problem,_ Sayid thought. He didn't dare say it, though. Instead, he stepped aside from the Faraday exhibit, studying the young man. If Nasim reminded him of anyone, it was the class spy in his science class as a child: Taller than he, athletic, with charm and energy to spare. He wondered if Nasim had served the same function in school as Fahd had. _He probably did,_ he thought, _and he probably enjoyed every minute of it, too._

"I appreciate that your cousin will pay my way, Nasim," Sayid began, his voice growing low, "but before I accept any of your money, I must know the situation. You understand. It would be remiss of me to take any of your money without knowing why it is being given to me, and I will not do that."

"And you want me to talk in the middle of the science museum?"

"No," Sayid responded, patient as he could manage. "I simply will not take your money until I know what is expected of me. You won't tell me here, I know that. That is the right decision. But I must make my own decisions, and I will not make them on half-information."

"Bloody careful, aren't you?" Nasim grinned at him, encouraging him to grin back. Despite himself, Sayid felt the smile take. "You'll want to speak to my cousin, _abu_. He's the one that's got the information. I just arrange the meetings."

"Munir, correct?" Sayid glanced back towards the stairs. The docent was making her way towards them, and Sayid reached out for the young man's shoulders, guiding him slightly aside to let the girl and her young gang pass. "I will want to meet with him, yes. How easy is it to arrange a meeting? If you're the one arranging it, my guess is that it is indeed easy."

To Sayid, Nasim did a strange thing. He raised his index finger to his nose, tapping alongside it. Sayid stared, blank, blinking. Nasim sighed at the lack of understanding, telling Sayid, "Spot on." That made things no less confusing, so after a moment, the young man elaborated. "That means that you are right. It's easy to arrange a meeting. In fact, one has already been arranged for you. You're to meet with Munir today, if you can."

Of course he could. The docent was not nearly pretty enough to stop a meeting with a Hammud heir in its tracks. Sayid made a lead-on gesture, and Nasim turned, moving from the science building. _Why he asked to meet in the Science Museum, I have no clue,_ Sayid thought. _Piccadilly and Mayfair aren't as easy a ride from here as they might have been from elsewhere._ He supposed he would find out sooner rather than later, however, and so he did not inquire further as to the point of the meeting's location. It would have been pointless to do so, anyway, when all he had to do was wait for events to take their course. He far preferred to observe than press the issue, especially when it came to serious business. Nasim aside, everything he had been told about the matter was that it was quite serious indeed. He would wait, and he would learn, and then he would make a decision. He had always prided himself on his circumspection. Now, with God's favor, he would be wise enough to use it.

–––

The porters amused Sayid. He suspected even their collars were starched. Brown's was so quintessentially English that he suspected even the English, proud as they were of their heritage, may have been embarrassed to be seen in the lavish place. It was an international clientele that frequented the place, not a British clientele: He instantly heard at least four languages that were not English, and dialects of English from Australian to Jamaican, upon entering the lobby.

He did not hear Arabic amongst the mix, and he wondered about that. Nasim had said Munir was staying here, so he hoped that it would be the case. From what he understood, too, Munir had the money to do so. The place was expensive and expansive, but he was sure, whatever it cost, the Hammud inheritance would surely cover the cost.

Munir was not in the lobby, however. Sayid was taken down the hallway to an elevator, rich, dark furnishings surrounding him, the wood imported. No teak tree would grow in England except perhaps in Kensington Gardens' greenhouses, and he suspected that they were not in the process of hauling lumber away from biospheres quite yet. They would rather take from others than from their own environments, he knew, and they had done so in Iraq.

Instantly he felt all the old hatred of the West surging within him, could hear Ibrahim's diatribe surging in his ears. He did his best to block that. They did not want a fanatic for whatever they had in mind. They wanted a planner, an architect. That was the reason for his recommendation. He did not have to hear their plans to know that.

The well-appointed furnishings were the same in the rooms, too, and Sayid stood for a moment at the boardroom's entrance, staring, taken aback. _This hotel room is as wealthy as all of Tikrit,_ he thought, and it seemed jarring to have an Iraqi, no matter how rich, standing in the middle of it. _Hussein's friends are every bit as demanding and avaricious as the Westerners._

He smiled at Munir, though, and bowed towards him. Greetings were exchanged, and Munir looked him over, assessing him. "_Ya Bek Jarrah._ It is a pleasure to meet you. I trust you have had a pleasant stay for these past few weeks in London?"

"As pleasant as can be expected," Sayid responded, "and I thank you for your generous offer to assist me financially. I am sure Nasim has already warned you, though: I must know what I am doing. I warn you, if I do not like it, I will not do it. You will pardon me, of course, for being so forward, but I will not compromise my beliefs. Neither will I compromise your plans, if I feel myself unsuited." He bowed his head in deep _salaam_, then glanced up towards Munir again.

He had no idea how the rich young man would react. He expected all manner of things, but was relieved to see that Munir was smiling. Evidently the fellow was not as capricious as his boyish relative, the messenger. "It is for that discretion that we have sought you out, _ya Bek_." He switched to Arabic then, and Sayid could tell what that meant: It was time to talk business. "Please," Munir started their conversation in a new language. "Have a seat."

The chairs looked too nice to sit upon, but Sayid chose one that looked the plainest out of his choices. He hovered over it properly before Munir took a seat, and then sat down himself.

Munir busied himself with an _argilah_, tapping down the smoke before lighting it up, taking a short drag on the pipe, and passing it to Sayid. "Mint," he said, before continuing. "We have asked you here because we have it on good reference that you are a man of your word and a man of science. We understand that you are currently in need of money. We can provide you with it, in exchange for your knowledge and your silence."

For a moment, Sayid wondered who the 'we' that Munir mentioned were. He curled his fingers around the pipe tightly, nodding his thanks about it towards the aristocrat. "And my doings? What must I do?"

"You must study the airplanes in Heathrow for us."

Sayid drew himself up straight, met Munir's eyes, felt his fingers tighten further on the pipe. "I will not be part of a hijacking. I am not a terrorist."

"Nor will we, nor _are_ we. You assume wrongly. We ask only for your knowledge, Officer Jarrah. Surely you will provide us that." Munir smiled, but the expression was not genuine. It did not reach his eyes. "You seem to have a passion for a certain cause. It is not my idea to find out specifically what drives you. But it is not your place to find out what drives us, either. We need only the data, and then we will provide you with the money and the resources you need to do whatever it is you have found yourself in London to do."

Sayid stared, considering. Munir had offered him a great deal, and asked very little. He knew the Hammud family would not be engaged in terrorism. Surely providing information to his countrymen about the Westerners' airplanes couldn't hurt. He owed nothing to the British, and everything to the man that held the financial key to his search for Nadia. He would do this for Munir, and he would not feel bad about it. He had betrayed his country for Nadia, and whatever he could do to set matters right, he was indebted to do.

"You have assured me this has nothing to do with terrorism," Sayid began slowly, "and I believe you. I will hold you to God on that. By your faith in Islam, if you are causing trouble, I will sooner see you struck down by God, and myself as well, than to cause harm."

"The details on airplanes are not for war. They are for science, I am told," Munir responded. "You are a scientist. Surely you can agree with the notion of scientific progress, or did Cairo University produce a politician in the clothing of a scientist?"

"I am no politician," Sayid replied. "I am too honest – and you know what a contradiction that is with politics." In the moments that followed, Sayid did his best to assure Munir that he was a scientist, and from there they spoke only of airplanes for the next half-hour. He wondered how much Nasim understood, sitting there reading a tabloid magazine, and how much the messenger boy cared to understand. He envied Nasim his breeziness about the whole affair, at the end. He could not afford such carelessness anymore.


	27. Excitable Boy

**XXVII: Excitable Boy**

His first meeting with the American had gone well enough. Worried about a girl, he was, and Desmond saw no reason to dissuade the worries. The girl was one of theirs, of course, and the injuries she had suffered – they were fake, he guessed. Surely all of the reports had been falsified. He found it hard to believe that the American's father was in on things, but it was easier to believe than a miracle healing, and surely that couldn't be the case. It was more believable as a conspiracy, and he wondered about that. He had never suspected such things existed before. Conspiracies existed far more believably than miracles, though, and so he would believe in the former unless further proof arrived.

He was supposed to meet with the American again, in a few days. And then again, a few days after that. They had scheduled his meetings, and he looked forward not to them, but to the free time between. There were enough paths in the parks to get some running done, and if he was going around the world, he would have to prepare.

'Boston is the Hub of the Universe,' he was told, and from the way the city clustered around itself, concentric spirals of roads and rivers, he could really believe that was the case. If he concentrated hard enough, he believed he could find the center of Boston, too, hidden amongst the bars and the arenas and the Colonial landmarks. Sure, the Yanks liked their landmarks. They didn't point him to the right places, though. The signs had not been useful in Piccadilly. They were not useful here.

It was strange, too. He may as well have been a local. Nobody was startled at his accent. He was told that there were a lot of Irish here, but it was really quite funny how nobody thought anything of him other than a Bostonian. He blended in surprisingly well. Perhaps they had been right to send him here and ask him to search out the doctor after all. Perhaps he could blend in here.

The Charles was quite like the Liffey in how it divided the town, and institutions straddled it like Finn MacCool across the Causeway. So this was Harvard, all buildings that looked as old as some of the newer ones in Dublin. That was funny to him – America was so young, and some of its buildings were so old. It made sense in a way, though. America was a contradiction, but it all worked itself out in the end. Everything did, from countries to people.

–––

It was an Irish bar they had set him up in, and he was not sure whether to be honored or offended at that. So he sat there, messing with the napkin holder, eating pretzels, drinking Guinness 'til the tap ran out and then wishing he had more. And still the doctor had not come, and he was beginning to wonder if he would ever come. And then, tall, shaggy-haired, recognizable. Desmond was out of the booth before Jack could find a place to sit, and, attentive and avid, made his way towards the taller fellow. "Ah, brother! Need a seat? I've been wonderin' what happened with you and the girl, yanno?"

Jack appeared to be taken aback. Desmond couldn't blame him. After a moment, though, he seemed to figure it was all right, and allowed a cautious smile. "Yeah. Sarah. She – she'll be all right, if you can believe it. Thanks for your concern." The gratitude was real, and, as if it was a spur to action by itself, Jack accompanied Desmond back to the booth.

Desmond took a handful of pretzels, crunched down on them, passed the basket towards Jack, noting sadly, "They're out of Guinness; my sincere apologies. They said I drank it all."

Jack grinned vaguely, reaching out for some pretzels. "Drinking like that's no good for an athlete."

"Neither's bruising your ankle," Desmond said. "I don't see that stoppin' you, now!"

Jack burst out in sudden, sharp laughter, so abrupt that Desmond could feel himself jump a little bit. The doctor then signaled the waitress for a drink, turning back towards Desmond. "So what brings you here, then? An Irishman in an Irish bar – I'm sure there's a joke about that."

"That's a right laugh. Tons of jokes," Desmond replied seriously. He thought, _What brings me here is that they told me to find you, lad,_ but did not dare say that to the fellow. Instead, he turned his attention towards the rest of the bar, assessing it. Perhaps he could try to talk to Jack about the situation now. With any luck, the doctor would readily accept their request for assistance. All Desmond needed was the right time and place to approach it, and he hoped this was it. If it was not, he had one more chance, but already he could feel the opportunity of it starting to slip away. He would rather get things resolved now, if at all possible, and he took a quick survey of the bar, munching on pretzels all the while.

It was quiet now, and he was not sure if he had made it that way with a glance, if his timing was right, if they had made it quiet, or if it was mere chance. All of the options were equally convincing. He thought for a moment he saw a waitress studying him, could have sworn she looked Irish thanks to the red hair, but thought better of it then. He had things to do. They did not involve chatting up waitresses, even if they reminded him of home.

"I have friends at UCD and Trinity," Desmond started the spiel that he had rehearsed a dozen times already, watching Jack for any signal that the American was no longer interested in what he was saying, doing his best to be careful. "They're at the medical schools there. They had an offer to make a doctor friend of mine, and I thought, 'Jaysus, I met a doctor real soon ago, now.' " He settled in and started talking.

–––

_They will not be happy with me. They will not be happy that I got nothing from him but shock and consternation. They will banish me to an island somewhere, like they did with Napoleon._ His footsteps sounded harsh on the cobblestoned streets as he made his way away from the bar, running a hand through his hair. No doubt the doctor was still in the bar, enjoying the pretzels and drinks on the tab of the fellows that had paid for Desmond's ticket. He supposed that was all right, if the doctor's father was involved, but it bothered him nonetheless. He should have produced results. All he had done was frustrate everything – the project, himself, the doctor. It had been bad, and he knew that a third meeting, if one was to be had, would go no better.

What would happen to the project without the doctor's involvement? They had planned on this. For them to send him over here for the explicit purpose of currying favor with the doctor, they had relied on this. He could not see exactly what would happen, but he knew that it would be no good. He drew his coat around himself, shaking his head. The weather on this side of the Atlantic was even more brutal than it was in Ireland. The wind bit into him viciously, and he gave it a good, "Feck off, _an gaoth Atlantach_." It didn't solve things, of course, but he could at least pretend that it could.

They would have to do something about the doctor, though. It was all Desmond's fault, but Jackie-boy, brother-Jack knew too much now. _Perhaps they'll banish him to a deserted island too,_ Desmond thought, a moment of levity working its way in there. _A doctor without patients. Physician, heal thyself._

He had a race to win, though, so he would leave the whole banjaxed business here. In a mere matter of days, he would be halfway around the world, and they would have forgotten about him. They would be of no matter to him, and when he won the race, they would have to respect him, and they would be unable to make him vanish. The race was due to set off from Miami, and as long as he could make it down to Florida and out of America without any more trouble, he would be able to put this behind him. They would do nothing. He would be safe. He was not to be blamed for their troubles. He had given it his best effort. They could ask him to do nothing more.


	28. Mr Bad Example

**XXVIII: Mr. Bad Example**

Sawyer figured out the town within a few minutes of arriving at the borderline. The only stretch of highway kids drove down was the little spit of highway that cut into the seas of blue ridges and marble-caked metamorphic rock, from the McDonald's to the Burger King. He figured that there was little else for these kids to do but go from one fast-food joint to another. He wasn't jealous of their boundaries.

Still, it was better than what he'd had, and he was jealous of that, at least. He drove his beater hard, jerking it around corners, pulling up to stop signs as seriously as possible, his foot stomping all too hard on the brake pedal. Maybe it was the claustrophobia of the town. Maybe it was too close to the plantations. He felt out-of-place in the mountains of northern Georgia. Perhaps he needed to go further South. Perhaps he needed to find somewhere tropical in which he could lose himself.

_If it worked for Jimmy Buffett, it'll work for Jimmy Ford,_ he thought, wincing after a moment at the unconscious use of the nickname. There was something fake about it, though. It was no longer his name. He had not used it for years, and it was almost as if James Ford had died back when he had run his first con. The twenty-something guy driving the car was not the nineteen-year-old kid that had first taken it out for a spin, having purchased it on odd-job wages.

Some highschool morons in a pickup roared past him, drinking beer. One lobbed a can at his car, and he felt it ping the hood, but kept driving. He wouldn't get into a drag race with these kids. There was no reason to rise to their bait. Likewise, there was no reason to feel guilty as he drove past the rickety church that proclaimed in cheap marquee lettering, 'He Knows What You Did Last Summer', although he did have to grin at it despite himself.

_I sure did a hell of a lot,_ he thought. _But on the other hand, I didn't do much of anything._ He had nothing to regret, anyway. He hadn't killed anyone, hadn't hurt anyone, really. If anything, he had even done good: When he saw that little boy, the kid of David and Jessica, he had fled. Surely that deserved some points for doing good, he suspected, and then he knew that it didn't really matter. He could never make up for what he had done to people. There was no point in trying.

What Sawyer had to do now was to get away from Kilo. Where better to go than some hick town in the middle of nowhere? They wouldn't find him here, and when he got tired of it, he just needed to move on. That was an easy enough thing to do. He had only his aunt up in Roxboro, and he'd visit her soon, so other than her, he had nothing to stick around for. The gypsy life was getting old, though. Maybe this was where he could stay. _If only,_ he thought, suddenly wistful.

He was fooling himself, though, he suddenly realized. It would never happen. The hundred and forty grand would run out, because he was no good at saving the stuff. It would be spent on booze, a new set of wheels, maybe some paperwork to cover his tracks, and he would be off again. He had never fled a con job before this last one, but he knew enough about the life by now – months and then years of having perfected the art – to know that he would have no luck from the windfall. In a way, living hand-to-mouth from con to con was easier. There was less responsibility. It was freer. He liked it better that way.

–––

He could tell the diner wasn't much of anything from the way the menu was laid out. It was cheap paper, onion-skin more than anything really worthy of typing, and across the top was printed, 'SOUP DU JOURE.' 'JUICE.' 'SALAD.' Something struck him as odd about that list. He suspected it might be the French. But he didn't speak the language, just knew that it looked fishy. _Maybe if I'd gone to college,_ he thought, a sudden vision of Mark Boswell in his mind. He had not heard from Mark in ages. What was the guy doing now? Probably some hotshot lawyer in Memphis. Mark got all the breaks. He, Sawyer, got none of the breaks. He expected the fellow would be doing well, though.

The waitress looked more like a nurse than a food server, and her breath reeked of stale coffee. She hovered over him like he was a pariah, something to be watched. Maybe he was. _Nobody knows me here,_ Sawyer thought, _and they don't want me here either._ Their dislike suited him fine, though. As long as he didn't give them reason to alert the authorities, he would simply stick around, and not get in their way.

"Whaddaya want?" Something about the voice struck him as odd, in its high range. He had asked the same question once. But he had not done so at a diner, and he had not followed up the question with, "Special's the meatloaf. I think we still have a few pieces left, darlin'."

He squinted towards the short-order window. From the look of the meatloaf, long moldering and half under tinfoil, he expected they had more than a few pieces. He was not about to help them out with their efforts to get rid of the day-old special, though. Instead, he told her, "Burger's fine."

"Fries?"

He could feel the money starting to slip away already, even as he nodded. "Yeah. And a Coke. Thank you, ma'am." He gave the older woman his best million-dollar grin, making an effort to be polite. It didn't hurt, even if she didn't look like she had money enough to be a good mark. From the way she turned away, something funny and apparently quite foreign passing over her face, Sawyer figured that nobody had looked that way at her in a long time, so long that the notion of charm was all but foreign to her. He lit up a cigarette, taking a drag, and leaned against the counter, the money weighing heavily in his pockets and his briefcase.

The burger was old, and the fries were cold, but Sawyer was grateful for any sort of food, even if it was bad. This little hole-in-the-wall town didn't strike him like a place that had any four-star establishments. Then again, the remoteness was why he had chosen it. He devoured the hamburger hungrily, barely stopping for breath. The waitress, infatuated despite herself and the relatively cold line he had given her, watched him the entire time. It was all he could do not to stop and make some cutting remark, but he did not want to poison the well quite yet.

"Carryin' around a lot of money, aren't you?"

The opening salvoes to a conversation Sawyer knew quite well had just been given. Ordinariy, the invitation to a con relieved him; now, when he wanted nothing more to hide from the mess he'd caused, he felt doubly nervous. He set down his burger and turned to face an older man – not Kilo; Kilo was black and this guy was white – broad-shouldered but shorter than Sawyer himself.

The man observed, "You paid with a hundred. And people don't pay with hundreds, unless they have more where that one came from. And I bet you even keep it in a briefcase, like a real Volunteer businessman. Yeah, I saw your license plates. You know, if I didn't know any better, son, I'd figure you for a real live con man. Got a name?"

Sawyer smirked tightly at that, unamused, and set down the burger. "Sawyer," he told the fellow, extending a hand.

The other, older man did not take the hand. He did, however, give Sawyer his name. "Hibbs," he responded. The lead-in to the inevitable question was quicker than Sawyer had expected, but not uncomfortably so. No alarm bells went off. "What sort of jobs do you do?"

A proper response demanded simplicity. That was it. Sawyer met Hibbs' glance firmly. "What do you need done?"

–––

A quick shower in the bathroom at the end of the flophouse hallway, a shave, and Sawyer collapsed on the box-spring mattress without having unpacked any of his gear. There was no point to doing so. He would leave this lousy place tomorrow. Hibbs had given him a hell of a proposition, and he would do it. The thought entered his mind, _You sold your soul to the Devil at that diner, and if anyone charges interest, it's him._ He had not sold anything with which he was reluctant to part, though. It was such a simple task that Sawyer couldn't believe that there was no catch.

He supposed he would find out through experience, though. That was the way he preferred to learn. Books were fine, studying other guys on a job was great, but there was nothing like running a con yourself to learn things. Each time, he discovered more and more about himself, and even if he had not liked what he had seen, at least he had seen it.

Hibbs had seen it, too. He could tell, from the way the man spoke to him upon learning that he would do whatever the guy needed to be done. The fellow had undoubtedly figured him as a smooth con, a man of action, and he would do his best not to disappoint Hibbs. He had already been a disappointment to Kilo, and he knew that would come back to haunt him sometime. For now, though, he had a new boss, and he would do his best to follow Hibbs' orders. He wasn't too worried. Whatever he was asked would be fine.

He tried his best to sleep. Sleep was difficult to come, though. It always was. Each time, he would lie there and see everyone's faces before him. It was worse when he finally got some shut-eye, though. The dreams weren't just sleep-induced visions. There was something real to them, something _solid_, and it was harder to look away from the faces he saw there than those he saw in sleep-deprived, drunken hazes.

This time, however, it would not be bad. Really, Hibbs asked nothing much, he reflected as he lay there, watching the fan spin overhead. The man asked only for a job in Atlanta and a second in Tampa, and that would be an easy enough thing to do. So Sawyer would head further south again. Florida had gone weird for him last time. Perhaps it would be weird again.

But he trusted Hibbs – not that the man was telling him the truth, because Sawyer knew he was lying about ninety percent of what he said, but that he had offered Sawyer an opportunity to make more money. Here was his chance to pay Kilo back, waiting there with Hibbs and his friend Parks, and he would do his best to repay the man. He still felt badly about that whole thing, and he suspected maybe he even felt a bit guilty towards Kilo, for scamming him in that way.

_No, you don't. Stop being so sentimental about it. You feel no guilt, because you're a bastard, and you've always been a bastard. Maybe even literally, for all you know. You're as bad as any of them. Worse, because they're honest with themselves about what they are, and you, you can't see that you're every bit as vicious as they._ The voice rose, unbidden, and he swallowed, turning away from it, looking towards the window, vertical blinds sending small slits of light across the room.

He would help Hibbs on his jobs, and then he would pay Kilo back, and everything would be fine, then, he told himself. It would have to be all right. He could not go on like this much longer. He did not want to die a con-man. He had different plans. He wanted to see the bastard dead that effectively killed his parents, even if it killed him. He wanted to die as his parents' champion.

Sawyer shut his eyes and began to make out shapes in the pinpoints of light and patches of darkness. He knew the dreams were coming again, so he thought, _I need to get totally drunk next time I want to sleep. I can't dream clear-headed anymore. Nothing good ever comes of it._

Perhaps that should have been a warning. He felt no dread, though. He felt no fear, either, simply guilt, and as crushing as that was, there were no predictions in it. He felt no fear about the future. Later, that would strike him as ironic, maybe even funny, if it weren't so pathetic. All he could think of now, though, was how far he had gone -- how far he _was_ gone -- for another man's death.


	29. Charlie’s Medicine

**XXIX: Charlie's Medicine**

When she was in California, Libby could not tell when fall blended into winter. The seasons seemed all one long expanse of heat and ocean breezes, and she was unused to that. The people all looked so young there, too – were they thirty years old? Forty? They all seemed the same – eighteen. Botox, surfing, a Vegan or Freegan diet, all contributed to the people looking so young. Even the patients at the institution had looked young, and she remembers how she had not been able to keep the word 'boy' out of her mind when thinking of the Reyes kid.

He calls himself Hurley now, and she does not know from where the nickname has come. There is a town called Hurley, in Ulster County, near where she came from, but the town and he have nothing to do with one another. At the institution, she had asked him once if he had ever been out of California, back when he was a patient, and he said that he had not. So he had not come to that town and adopted its name. She determines to find out, though. Surely it means something.

For now, though, she will let him read the manual and leave him to his own devices. Whatever the language is, it doesn't look one bit like Spanish, so she doubts he'll be any help there. Still, he wanted to read it, and it is not her book to say who can and can't take a look at it.

The weather is crystal-clear on the beach, so people are on it this afternoon. Someone has started an impromptu concert, and she knows who it is before she reaches the guitar player stretched out in a beachside hammock. "Charlie," she greets the Englishman. "Mind company?"

He shakes his head, moves his pick-bearing hand to tap on the hammock's free side, and she sits down, careful not to disturb him and his guitar too much, not lifting her legs from the ground for fear the hammock won't support the two of them. "I never listened to your band, Driveshaft," she begins, watching for his reaction.

He's clearly not surprised. He shrugs, looks over his sunglasses at her. "I wouldn't have thought you did." He hits a few more chords before speaking again. "It's all right, though. A lot of people haven't. Hurley says his girlfriend used to sell our CDs."

The word is out before she can think to avoid it. It's more certain than she would have liked, as well. "Starla."

Charlie stares at her for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. I think that was the name." He whips off his sunglasses, drops his hand from the guitar, instantly transformed into a fountain of curiosity. "He told you about her? You've only been here three bloody days. He didn't tell _me_ about her for the longest time!" He sounds a bit hurt, but not much. More than hurt, he sounds desperately curious. "You couldn't have known him. No. There's no way."

She looks away from him, studying the sand. Her bare feet, warmed from having walked in it, try to dig a hole in the surface, but end up only kicking the grains around. It's not wet enough to mold anything.

Her look away may have been as good as an acquiescence, she knows, and Charlie certainly interprets it correctly. "I can't believe it. I can't believe there's a connection between people here. Something's going on. Something must be going on. I swear, I'll tell Jack…" And he starts to swing himself from the hammock to do just that, so consumed with his sudden task that his sunglasses, forgotten, fall to the sand.

She leans down to pick them up, folding them carefully, studying their nearly opaque surface. She suddenly realizes she needs a pair. When they took off from the tail wreckage, she had left hers behind in the chaos. There was more left behind there, too – not just bodies. She chooses not to go down that road at the moment, though. The short blond man staring at her, aghast, commands her attention at present.

"It's no real mystery, Charlie. We worked together." She lies a bit, thinking, _If I can help Hurley save face, it's worth it. There are so few people here, and Charlie _is_ his closest friend._ "When I worked at Bellevue, he was a janitor there." She extends the sunglasses to the young Brit. "Whatever you want to tell Jack about it, though, feel free. But it's not a revelation."

"So I'm just supposed to ignore it?" Charlie's voice is sharp. "No. I'm telling Jack." He grabs his guitar by the neck, slinging the strap around him, his eyes on her. "And you can naff off with your whining." He starts to stalk away, neglecting his glasses.

"Charlie!" Her voice is sharper than she intends. It makes the Englishman stop in his tracks. "Look. The reality of it is this – Hurley wasn't a janitor, all right? You can't tell him I told you." She smiles at him sadly, feeling like a traitor. "The truth is that he was in that mental hospital, Charlie. I know. I was the person that interviewed him for admission. There. Now you know. You can't tell him, though. He hasn't told anyone, and it wouldn't be right for me to just – to just air his secrets like that." _You just did,_ a little voice tells her, but she ignores that.

Charlie's eyes are wide. "Hurley's a lunatic?"

"No!" she tells him hurriedly. "No, he's not crazy. He was just depressed." She shakes her head, her eyes wide. "He was treated and then he was released. He's better now. So if you go telling someone, even Jack, you'll screw things up for Hurley. Don't do that. It's not right to him, if you're his friend."

The young man stares at her for a moment, unable to decide the truth of the matter. He sighs at last, nodding. "All right. You're right. I hope you're bloody well happy, though. If it were up to me…"

"Thank you, Charlie," she cuts him off shortly. "Here. Your sunglasses." She extends them to him, noticing her arm trembling a little bit. She makes a concerted effort to steady it, and succeeds.

He stalks forward, grabbing the sunglasses from her none too politely. "This is bad, Libby. I feel like a bloody traitor knowing this and not saying anything about it."

"How do you think I feel for saying something about it? That doesn't make me feel good, believe me. Be nice to him, Charlie. Don't let on. You can do that." She does her best to give him an encouraging smile, then shakes her head. "Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned Starla. But I was just so surprised at recognizing it that I couldn't help it." She lifts a finger to her lips. "Mum's the word, though, as you'd say."

Charlie does not look amused by that. She wonders if the term is perhaps too old, but then he acknowledges it, still not looking pleased. "So how can we make him stop being crazy? Does he have drugs? Medicine? Something?"

"Not anymore. But you can be the medicine, Charlie. Just make sure that he's on an even keel." A sudden concern hits, and she voices it: "He has been, right? No sign of anything wrong?"

"No. Not as far as I can tell." She wonders about asking for an opinion on insanity from a rock star, and decides that musicians are probably all right candidates. He adds, "But I will keep an eye on him, Libby. Promise." He makes a cross-my-heart sign to seal the deal, and sets off, the guitar jouncing along as he walks away.

She should not have done that. Charlie does not strike her as someone who easily keeps secrets about others. She hopes he won't blurt it out to his friend, for if Charlie tells, who else would have told him but her? She only wants a few minutes back to rectify the situation, but then again, it could be far worse. There are far greater things that could have gone wrong. She is alive, they are alive, and as far as she knows, outside of the whole business with the search party, things are going all right.

This is a new place, but it is an all right place to be. She feels safe here at the new camp, with the new people. There is reassurance in the wind, the sky, the sand beneath her feet, a calmness to the waters that she had not seen in Atlantic or Pacific. She does not need to worry so much anymore. She does not need to be afraid. They have managed to get here, her camp and the others' group, and together, they will be all right here. She will get to know the rest of them, and there will be time enough for that.

There is space here for people to live, to breathe, to be themselves, and she resolves to do that. _In a way,_ she thinks, _it's a great opportunity. I guess we should feel lucky to have the chance to start over._

"Charlie was just here?"A young woman's voice breaks into her thoughts, Australian. She nods absently before turning to the young girl, smiling automatically at the sight of the baby. What was the baby's name? Moreover, what was the girl's name? "I'm Claire," the young woman supplies, as if she has read Libby's mind. "I wonder how he's doing. There was – we had a row. I kicked him out. He's doing all right, though?"

Libby realizes, _She is not offering to take him back, only showing concern about him._ She wonders about this, but it is not her place to inquire. Instead, she nods. "He's doing fine," she tells the young girl. "Nice to meet you, Claire. Libby. And this?"

"This little ankle-biter's Aaron," Claire introduces her to the baby, shuffling the boy in her arms as she sinks into the hammock. "He's not Charlie's; don't worry. He's only a few weeks old, aren't you?" Her attention turns towards the baby, and she toys with him for a moment, beaming at the child. Her smile is sudden and fresh, engaging, and Libby has to grin as well. "He's a good baby," Claire affirms then.

"He must be," Libby replies, still smiling. "It must be difficult to raise him here."

"Oh, it's a trick and a half! But it would be difficult anywhere. I was told that I should raise him myself, though, so I'm doing my best. Everyone else seems to have had experience at it, though, so I feel a right fruit loop trying to take care of him. And Charlie doesn't help anymore, and I don't want him anywhere near Aaron. But I do want to make sure he's all right."

Claire's firmness about Charlie startles her. She thinks, _Perhaps I gave him too much credit by feeling that he was all right with Hurley's past._ "What has Charlie done?"

"Loads of rubbish," Claire tells her seriously. "But I sprung him on something bad recently." She motions Libby to sit down on the hammock again, apparently needing a confidant in the matter. "C'mon. I'll tell you now, if you want. Aaron looks like he's about to have a kip, so I've got a few moments at least."

Libby is more than happy to listen, and Claire, it seems, is more than willing to talk. As Claire details things, Libby looks down at Aaron, thinking, _Charlie messed that up. She loves him, and he ruined that. Hurley's his friend, and I can only hope he won't ruin that as well._


	30. In the House When the House Burned Down

**XXX: I Was in the House When the House Burned Down**

The forest glows with subtly glistening light, each tree and root and leaf seeming to emit an unearthly phosphorescence. Sayid isn't sure if it's their particular jungle, on this specific island, or all jungles, generally. He hopes he'll have the opportunity to find out, back in the real world.

Raindrops fall onto the leaves around them, sounding like pebbles against a metal sheet, uncannily harsh and loud. Once more, like each time it rains, there is no wind, just the monotonous wetness pouring down onto them, a measured, steady flow.

_It will wash away the tracks, not just ours – but Sawyer's and his fellow traveler's too,_ Sayid thinks. _We will be out here, having lost both their way and ours._ They must keep pressing on while they still can. They must continue to move. At least the rain will serve to drive away any snipers, he hopes. He has to take the chance, because they cannot go backwards, and they cannot stay there, still, waiting in the trap for a second attack.

"Sayid!" Kate's voice breaks through to him, and she clambers through the mud towards him. He turns back to look towards her, feeling the army tag he's hung around his neck again swing with the motion, but doesn't stop moving. If he stops, he'll get stuck in the mud. This environment is so foreign, and he doesn't trust it. "Sayid," Kate repeats his name, apparently unsure if he'd heard it the first time through the rain. "We're going to lose the tracks out here. We can't keep going."

"What do you suggest we do?" he asks, trying to keep the sharpness from his voice despite the need to shout over the rain. "Where should we go? There is nowhere."

"We should find cover," she says, extending her arms for balance as she works her way over a few muddy sluices. "There has to be some. If these things are out here, these hatches, then there must be another one, somewhere."

"And you assume that no one will be there, and that no one will know we are there. You're wrong. Look what happened last time." He scrapes some hair away from his face, turning towards her. He must be blunt. "I did not ask you to come along so that you could encourage us to quit. I asked because I thought you could handle heading through the jungle, no matter what came. If you were planning to quit, you should have said so to me. You did not."

She gives him a petulant look, starting to protest: "Yeah, but I didn't think that – "

Whatever she had not thought, he does not get the chance to find out. As she speaks that, he becomes aware of something sharp and sudden, sounding like it's from everywhere around them at once.

Birds. Squawking. Startled by something. Their chatter sounds like the fussing of children denied their playtime.

The rain stops, as simply as that.

A pair of birds fly from the nearest cluster of ferns, screeching insanely.

Sayid also stops, still, his senses instantly alert. He raises a hand and closes it into a fist, hoping they will recognize the signal: _Danger._

He hears no movement behind him. They must have listened. Feeling some relief at that, he sighs, lets his hand drop, presses forward again. Whatever had sent the birds out does not seem about to come after them.

Next to him, Kate seems to be keeping pace and, as the sounds of three other people moving reassert themselves, he can tell that Locke, Eko, and Ana-Lucia are also having no trouble keeping up just behind them. He keeps his voice low, but makes conversation with the girl closer to him to pass the time. "Kate – what were you doing before the meeting at the hatch yesterday? You were late. I admit, I was curious as to why."

She gives him a cross look for a moment, obviously annoyed that he's asked the question. Shaking her head, her hair flinging raindrops everywhere, she folds her arms, pointing out, "I said I was sorry I was late."

"I know. I believe you." He was asking for explanation, not apology, but he doesn't feel like pressing the issue any further. Now is not the time. His own voice sounds pretty apologetic. He feels badly, all but interrogating her. Whatever she was doing, she doesn't want the nearby trio to know, and she probably does not want to let him know, either. He'll leave her to her own devices, then. She'd probably prefer it that way.

He pushes aside a low-hanging branch, holding it aside to make it easier for her to follow. As she does so, passing nearby him, her voice drops low. "I was – I was seeing things, all right? A horse. A black one, like it was straight out of a movie. I think the island's starting to get to me. You can't let on, because," she makes a vague motion behind them, coupling it with two words that explain so much: "John Locke."

Sayid has to suppress a smile at that. He can't blame her. If he were in the situation she was, he would not let on to Locke that he was seeing things. _All I do is hear voices, and I saw Walt once. But who is to say that the vision was not Shannon's doing? It may well have been._ Why Shannon had seen it perplexes him, too, but he is not going to seek answers where he knows he will find no logical ones. There is no point in idle speculation about fantasy.

"If you see the horse again," he advises her, "tell someone straight away. We cannot afford miscommunication." She frowns on that, and he knows why. "If you would rather not tell Locke, I understand, but consider telling someone. Me, for instance."

She stares at him, shaking her head, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "You're the last person I would have expected to believe me. There's no logic to this."

Her sudden perceptiveness startles him. He blinks a few times, continues to walk through the damp jungle muck, and finally says, "There's no logic to any of this, I agree. However, if this horse exists, it is information, and the more information we have, the better. Then we can sort truth from falsehood. Let's not concentrate on that, though. We are not yet in a place where we can do so."

"Literally or figuratively?" a new voice breaks through. Locke comes up alongside of them, his tracking stick swinging from a hand. He's grinning, but Sayid notices that it's a tense expression. For all of his love of the island, Locke has none lost for their search. His blue eyes are widened, as if something has surprised him, and Sayid knows he does not want to ask what thoughts are running through the bald man's head. "What place do you expect us to get to?"

"Safety," Sayid responds quickly. "It is unlikely that we will find it by any means except continuing to walk until we discover something – another hatch, perhaps? A lean-to? I would be satisfied with a military trench."

"So we're not going to search for Sawyer anymore," Locke replies, coming to a conclusion quickly. "All right, then. I agree. Like I said before, why don't we just turn back?"

Sayid can feel his spine go rigid, his jaw clench. He waits a few moments until the urge to say something sharp to Locke dissipates, draws a deep breath, and then remarks quietly, "I will not get into an argument with you, John. This has already been discussed to death."

"Sayid!" Once more, Kate speaks his name suddenly, drawing his attention. Her own is elsewhere, though. She jerks an elbow in the direction of the Tail-enders, who have stopped to stare at something. Eko's hand is on Ana-Lucia's shoulder, as if he is trying his best to restrain her from something, and Sayid looks over the Latina's head towards where the pair are staring.

_They are right to be so transfixed,_ he thinks as he, too, now stares into the middle distance. None of the others move, either. They stand on the path, very still, and Sayid suspects that they all have the same shock running through their minds. Now is not the time to canvass for opinions, though. Now is the time to observe.

A person would have to be more than blind to miss what they are staring at. He would also have to be deaf and without a sense of touch, because the crackling and the heat are just as audible and palpable as the flames at the edge of the jungle are visible. If he squints a bit, Sayid can see what's intermittently covered by the flames – a small structure, looking not unlike the Hatch. He stares for a long moment, as if to make sure that he is not hallucinating or dreaming the sight into existence. The wind carries the smoke away from them, the fire seeming contained somehow. _Is someone there to monitor it?_

"I would imagine this is how Moses felt before the burning bush." Eko is the first to break the silence, his deep voice sounding somewhere between startled and vaguely amused at his own comment. His hand still rests on Ana-Lucia's shoulder, and Sayid wonders how much he is having to restrain her at the moment. All of Ana's attention seems to be on the fire; she leans forward, as if straining to see something within the fire. "Ana," Eko continues, looking down towards the small woman. "What is the matter?"

Ana-Lucia's voice is as tense as she looks. She doesn't sound exactly frightened, but neither does she sound relieved at what she sees. "Just – nothin', all right?" She jerks away from Eko, her face troubled.

Sayid is surprised at which of them chooses to address Ana-Lucia first. Of all people, Kate steps alongside her, her brows drawn together in confusion and concern. "Do you see something?" Her voice is suddenly urgent, and Sayid knows why, now. _The horse. She thinks Ana-Lucia is seeing the horse._ He watches as Kate moves closer to Ana-Lucia, despite her visible reluctance to do so. "What do you see?" Her voice is soft, any snappishness she had earlier shown at the other woman gone in her concern – not concern for Ana, Sayid knows, but concern for what the policewoman is seeing.

"_Who_ do I see?" Ana-Lucia counters, some irritation rising in her voice at the question. She looks past Kate towards Eko, and her eyes are very large. "Goodwin."

_Whom,_ Sayid thinks, but does not venture a correction. Instead, he quickly looks towards Eko, gauging the Nigerian's reaction. For once, he sees Eko show genuine shock, and that surprises him. He would be lying to say that he doesn't feel a little chill course through him at that, a sudden jolt of fear. If Eko is afraid, then it is with good reason.

"That is not possible, Ana," Eko replies. "There is no one there. And Goodwin's spirit is… elsewhere." There is an uncertainty about the last word that makes Sayid want to ask about it, and about Goodwin, but he does not get the opportunity.

He is conscious, initially, of a slight burning sensation. It is not bad. It is not electrocution. It is just discomfort, and he raises his hand to his neck, from which the feeling emanates. _Perhaps I've been shot with something._ His fingers slip through the chain on which he's hung the tag, and the slight burning turns to a sudden, intense flaring. It surprises him enough to cause him to let out a shout and jerk his hand away. As he cradles his hand, he can see the criss-cross pattern of the chain, burned into the meat of his palm.

They are staring at him. He can see the whites of their eyes. They back away, and he is not sure why, at first. Then, a sudden spark catches his eyes, and he glances down towards his chest.

The dog-tag has gone up in flames, just like the building they've come across. There is only mild discomfort to wearing the tag itself, though as he tries to move his hand towards it a small curl of fire licks at his fingers, searing them with severe pain. Apparently it doesn't want Sayid to interfere. He is more than happy to oblige. As always, he is relegated to observer.

"What the…" Locke sounds fascinated, and his rapt attention does not seem terribly healthy. "Can you feel it?"

Sayid shakes his head no, carefully. He does not dare do anything more. He does not want to interfere with the process. It is only a few moments before the flame goes out, but to him, carefully still, it feels like hours, and he suspects his compatriots feel the same. The fire extinguishes itself, and he can't seem to find a cause of it. It was real, though. It happened. The charred black surface of the tag, its surface now unreadable, assures him that it did happen.

He does not want to touch it. He will get burnt again. Something has to happen, though, and so after a moment of acknowledging the baked tag, he reaches out for it, expecting it to feel like molten lead in his fingers and doing his best to prepare himself for it. It is cool to the touch, though, and he cannot restrain a startled exclamation of Arabic at that surprise.

The girls flinch, and Eko and Locke tense, clearly having expected the foreign words to bode ill. Sayid yanks the dog-tag from his neck by its surface, worried about touching the chain now, and then reveals it in a hand, fingers splaying and extending towards the other travelers.

The numbers that had been on the surface before – numbers which he can recite in his sleep at this point, 4-8-15-16-23-42 – are now gone. The char on the surface makes it difficult to make out anything further, but as his thumb moves across the surface of the tag, a few blackened flakes drifting to the ground, he can make out a name on the main surface. An N, an A, and he needs to read no other letters to know what it of course says: _Nadia_.

He turns the dog-tag over. The other letters, he can feel, but not read. An 'L' and a 'W.' They are crudely fashioned, as if written in haste, or hammered out with a chisel that has a habit of slipping its mark. They are quite obvious, though.

He looks up from the tag towards his acquaintances, taking their reactions each in turn. Locke still stands there, terribly interested in the tag, craning his neck towards Sayid to see if he can make it out. His face is entirely contorted in wonder, the ardor of it at least momentarily making him silent. Ana has gone back to focus on Goodwin – whomever he may be – staring off towards where the suspicious brushfire had flared. Eko appears torn between Ana's obliviousness and Sayid's army tag, and keeps on glancing back and forth between the two of them, apparently unsure whom to counsel first. Kate's concern is for Sayid; she watches him steadily, not caring about the tag he holds or the freakish burning of it.

_They all approach this so differently,_ he thinks. _They all are so different. I thought I chose well for the trek, and I did, but we will never see eye to eye. If we cannot do that, Sawyer will be abandoned._ He pockets the tag, shaking his head to clear it. They came out here for a purpose, and they are only being distracted.

"Do you think that was his work?" Kate asks as they set off again, their trek into the jungle only continuing. Sayid turns towards her, staring, confused. "The fellow that Ana-Lucia brought back. The Other. The one you let go. Maybe he's following us. Maybe he set the fire. Maybe it was meant for us."

"It would not have spread this far," Sayid says. "Everything here is so contained. We were safe. I doubt it was the Other; he hadn't the intellect." He glances back towards Eko and Ana again, doing his best to ignore the billion questions running across Locke's face. The Tail survivors are moving along, if a bit more slowly than he and his more familiar people, Ana shooting occasional looks back towards the fire again.

He too glances that way despite himself. Perhaps he can get a look at this Goodwin fellow. Perhaps he can find out, just from mere surveillance alone, what it is the two of them are so worried about. He peers through the trees, trying to make himself as sharp-eyed and observant as possible.

He could have sworn for a moment he saw a figure through the trees – there, right nearby the fire. He stares at it, nearly tripping over a branch. He is not sure, however. It keeps on changing size and shape, the leaves casting mottled shadows across it that cause its outlines to contort and twist crazily.

At first, he sees a woman in a _hijab_, luminous and wraithlike, her scarves and skirts tinged with flame. The vision seems straight out of some folktale, and he can't think to rationalize it. The woman grows shorter, then, and darker, limbs lengthening and becoming coltish, form changing to something that might turn masculine in a few years. The features become less delicate, but not so much that it is an adult standing there. Nadia has changed into a ten-year-old boy, and the boy is someone he recognizes.

His voice catches in shock as he speaks to the branches, the trees, the birds that chatter raucously anew. Perhaps they are only continuing from when they flew out of the bushes. He has not been listening. He barely listens now, too, except to the sound of his own voice: "Walt?"


	31. Renegade

**XXXI: Renegade**

Tillman was one of those people, the kind that you don't want to fuck with. That much was clear. But there was nothing to be done about the situation now. All he could do was stand there and hope to ride things out successfully. And it was certainly bad, but it was not as bad as James had expected.

"I don't want you killed," Tillman assured him, his voice light, almost kindly. James wasn't buying it, though. Tillman tapped some stray ash off his cigarette, taking a drag off it before he continued, "If I had you killed, you wouldn't pay us back, and where would that put me? No better off than before." He smiled blandly towards James, adding, "You'll pay us back. Five thousand, right? That had better be a good car you bought, boy, or the best pro in the world." He steepled his fingers, staring down James for a long moment before adding, "And a thousand in interest. That makes it six k as of this week. Seven k as of next week. And we can keep goin' down that road as long as you need."

_I wouldn't have wasted the money on some car,_ James thought, but he knew that Tillman would not value that information. So he kept quiet. _Keep your eyes open. Look. Listen. Learn. Don't depend on anyone but yourself._

"You see, the thing you have to understand, James, is that when you borrow money, you pay it back. Ain't no two ways about it."

"Yeah, I know." James studied Tillman, trying to size him up, but it was a hopeless endeavor. The guy had both the height and weight advantages. "But I _told_ you, Mark's my friend. I can't just go to him and say, 'Hey, that money that I lent you for your stuff, pay it back,' hear?"

Tillman shook his head. His eyes met James' own. "You can, son. And you will." He suddenly sounded like a high school teacher. "You asked us to give you the money so you could get it double from Boswell. Now, we figured you weren't a real good con yet, since you're all of nineteen, but we decided to trust you. I would be very disappointed if you were goin' to break our trust."

To James, that sounded like an insult. They were implying that he would cut and run, not do what he had to do. He was not someone who ran away from his problems. He faced them, head-on. He dealt with them, even though nobody else he knew dealt with their problems, cowards that they were. He would face Tillman head-on, too, and deal with him. He had no other choice. He drew himself up straight, shaking his head at Tillman. "I won't do that. I'll have you your money. Promise. I don't know how, though," he admitted suddenly. _Maybe if I keep on repeating this, maybe he'll take pity on me._

"Find a way," Tillman said airily. "Ain't my concern. But if you bring me anything less than six grand for the trouble you put us through, it will be my problem, Mister Ford." Accentuating the young man's name precisely, he extended a cigarette towards James. James caught the scent of tobacco, could almost feel the cigarette between his fingers, the warmth of the embers and the smoke. He knew he should take it.

Suddenly, though, it seemed like bait for a trap.

James dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He shook his head sharply. "I had a smoke, man. I'm good." He saw a frown and thought, _I've done something wrong there._ It had felt right, though, so who cared what Tillman thought? "I'll get you your money," he continued. "You got nothin' to worry about there."

Tillman pulled the cigarettes away, stashing them in a pocket. "I know I don't," he agreed quietly, smoothing down his pocket. "Seven days. If you don't have the cash here by then, six thousand bucks, then we're going to have to get ugly over this. And I don't think you can stand losin' friends like me, in your position." He made a little wave of dismissal. "Go. Get me my money, boy."

James made the point of standing there for a moment longer, just to spite Tillman, until he turned on his heel and moved for the door. He threw a glance over his shoulder as he went, though, and saw Tillman watching him. Tillman's gaze was pretty vague, but there was a sense of evaluation about it. Walking towards the door felt like a test, but he could not figure out just what the subject of the test was.

–––

They were on East Campus, before the music building. That was supposed to be a famous place, James knew, and he wanted to sightsee, but he knew he didn't have the time to do so. It had taken him a day to get to Durham from Knoxville, and he was damned if he was going to spend any time acting like a tourist when he just about had a price on his head. He had to get the money out of Mark, and he had to do it quickly.

"I don't have the money, James." Mark shrugged at him carelessly. "I _told_ you it would be spent at a frat party over here. Not my fault."

James couldn't believe it. "Five thousand dollars on beer?"

Mark sounded pained. It was as if James' question had insulted him. "Not just beer, man. Pot and – and other things." He shoved his hands in his members-only jacket, looking deliberately away from James. "It's not my fault," he began, as if expecting a lecture to come. "My mom did it, too. Don't say you didn't know."

"Yeah, but…" James began, instantly feeling like a hypocrite. Who was he to lecture Mark, when he had given the guy the money and he was currently in more trouble for it than Mark could ever imagine? "Never mind," he decided, scowling at the ground beneath them.

The college was in between classes, and the campus was all but deserted, save the stray late coed heading to class, or the pair of students taking a long walk. James suspected he looked like Mark's classmate, but he had more important things to talk about than college classes, Plato or Nietzsche or whatever they read here. That sort of stuff didn't matter. None of these kids had any real idea of how the world worked. For all they read, they didn't understand what they read, and they didn't understand what they saw when they weren't reading, either.

"Well, however you spent the money, I don't care," James continued, trying to meet Mark's eyes again. This time, he succeeded. "The point is, I need it back. All of it. Five thou. I owe another thousand, but I'll get that somehow. I need the money, Mark." His voice sounded strangled. He wondered if he sounded like he was about to cry out of frustration.

Mark shook his head. "Sorry, man. Forgive me?"

James' reply was curt: "Yeah, if I'm still alive." He turned on a heel, and though everything in him wanted to beat up Mark, to exact a little bit of revenge on him for screwing him over like that, he knew he couldn't do that. He was in polite company, and he would not ruin people's day. He would get back at Mark another way, and he would do it in a way that would last longer than a simple fist-fight.

"You know, Mark," he said heavily, turning halfway back to study the collegian, suddenly direct and honest, "I thought we were friends in high school. I got you that money because you said you needed it. You knew it wasn't my money, and yet you aren't gonna pay me back?"

"What can I say?" Mark replied levelly, his eyes on James. "You make a lousy loan shark. I don't have the money, and I ain't gonna ask the guys in the frat. You want the money so badly, _you_ go beg for it."

James almost laughed at that. _I did beg for it. That's how you got the money in the first place, idiot._ He did not say that, though. He chewed on his lip, shook his head, and struck off across campus. He was not going to waste any more time begging Mark to pay him the money he was owed. There was always a better route. The only thing he would have to do would be to find it.

From the athletic fields, he could hear Duke's band strike up _Dixieland_, and it put a spring into his step and a smile onto his face. Things would turn out all right after all. All he had to do was change his methods. If honesty would not work, deception certainly would.

–––

He was still in the Duke Bubble, but it was a ritzy part of the Bubble. He could tell, because more professors hung out at the bars here and less students did. The fake ID he'd passed had sufficed to get him in, and he sat there nursing his drink. He wanted nothing more than to get smashed, but he couldn't afford himself the luxury at the moment. He had to find some good targets. They were definitely here. From the way they flashed money around, they were definitely really stupid as well. The 'bubble' name definitely fit.

Most times, a mark swam out of the sea of people, showing itself to him like one of those beta fish they used to sell at the stores in downtown Knoxville. They were as hard enough to miss as those fish, too, and this time was no exception. They were professors, both of them. History professors, from the Duke Faculty - History Building parking stickers on the car they'd parked nearby his. Finally, they were both dressed in chintzy tweed. He knew them. Professors Roger and Marianne Campbell. He had spent the past few hours memorizing names and photos of all of the freshman-campus professors in a yearbook sitting in the student union.

In his mid-forties, the guy even had a pipe, little patches on his jacket at the elbows, and a jaunty English cap. He was a stereotype and looked it. His wife was a bit younger, late thirties or early forties, and looked like she hadn't gotten laid for a long time, as blunt an evaluation as he knew it was. _She looks _desperate_, you should say,_ James corrected himself mentally, and he knew from having checked himself out in the car mirror after he had parked that he looked good enough to attract her attention.

He listened to them, counting down, hoping the guy would get up to order drinks for himself and his wife, keeping his fingers crossed that the crowd at the bar would keep him waiting there for the martinis or gin-and-tonics for a while. James would have to approach the woman, alone, in the first five minutes, or she would get deep enough in conversation that her husband would be unlikely to leave. He didn't want to have to look for a new mark. It was tricky enough even locating this one.

And then he saw the guy leave, but he wasn't heading for the bar. James watched as the patches moved past the bar, headed past where he sat along the side without stopping, reached the end of the bar and headed for the gents'. Even better. All he needed was a minute. This poor unlucky bastard had given him at least five.

James rose from where he sat, making his way towards the female professor. He was cool. He didn't need shills to help him out. He had his looks and he had his charm, and they were help enough. He felt his eyes grow wide as he neared her, his limbs grow loose, putting on a shocked look, and for a moment, it felt as if he had become another person. Perhaps he had. He'd think about that later, though. For now, he had a job to get done.

He smiled at the older woman, making sure it was an embarrassed sort of grin. "Professor Campbell," he greeted her, and she looked up. Unfamiliarity spread across her face, but she did acknowledge her name. He knew that much about her. "It's Dave Ramsey. I took your Western Civ class a few years back." He had picked a few past students that he looked like, too. The freshman classes were big enough that she'd barely recognize any name he gave her, but he wanted to make sure it was close enough for comfort. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Dave," she responded warmly, and whether it was at the name or at the killer grin that he was currently giving her, James wasn't sure and didn't care to find out. "I don't think I'd have expected to see you here, either. They let you in? You're old enough?"

He shrugged. "Twenty-two, if you can believe it. But I'm not in college anymore. Long story. And nah, I don't want to interrupt you or your husband. You got office hours, though?" He continued to stare at her, feeling his pulse pound, but keeping her in his gaze.

She stared back at him, transfixed, making no real noise for a few long moments. At last, she nodded. "Sure. If you're awake that early, come by at 9:30 tomorrow. You know where it is. I don't have any classes tomorrow, so you can take as long as you need."

From those words, and the way that her French-manicured hand traveled to the collar of her silk blouse, smoothing it carefully as she stared at him, her mouth hanging open a bit, he knew she had fallen for the con. He would have to get out fast, though, before her husband came back. He pushed the 'send call' button on one chunky, bulky cellphone, in his left jeans pocket, hidden by a long coat. The right pocket rang, and he pulled the second phone out. "Dave Ramsey here. Right – yeah, I'm coming to your pledge ceremony, Mark. Gimme a few. I know I'm late. I'm on my way." It was a short conversation but, really, how much could you say into a silent call before the illusion started to become apparent?

James signaled to the woman that he had to leave, promising her, "I'll be there tomorrow, hear? Don't you worry." He did his best to make it sound reassuring. "You folks have a good night, now." With that, he was on his way, and the con job was on its way as well.


	32. Model Citizen

**XXXII: Model Citizen**

Sayid could not get rid of the new recruit. Why the fellow wanted to hang around him, he was not certain, but he wished that the younger man would leave him alone. He had reports to write, superiors to report to, a whole host of things to do that required they be done in specific increments, in a set period of time. He could feel the weight of the anticipated work bearing down on him, and did not need any distraction to keep him from his tasks.

"I'll just sit and watch, if I can?" the recruit said. "They said that you were in charge of the reconnaissance detail that brought in the journalist, so I guess you're a good person to study."

Sayid smiled, but thought, _Why me? This is a punishment from God for what we have been commanded to do. I tried to deal with the journalist civilly, though. Is it my fault he is still sitting there stubbornly, refusing to talk? God commands us to fight, and I am being unjustly saddled with this irritating recruit?_

"By all means, study if you would like. I am only checking my belongings, though, and then I have reports to write. I doubt it will be fascinating."

It would have been better had Dana confessed in detail. It would have been easier. Then, he could have stayed there until he had gotten something out of him, until he knew what the connection to that girl was, and just whom the girl was. She had to be rich. There was no other way that she would have been afforded the necessary secrecy to send communiqués. A Baghdad family, probably, an oil magnate or a heavy-industry family. She could be royalty, too. There were too many questions, and he disliked not having the answers. He would get them, though.

First, he had to rid himself of the new recruit. He had ignored the new fellow for the longest while, laying out his supplies and tallying them up, making sure he was all set. His equipment was proper, and he felt some relief at that. _There's one thing I don't have to do, at least._ Now, he had to get his weapons off himself, and then he would tell the boy to leave. He pushed up the left-side hem of his fatigue shirt, ripping the tape off in a smooth motion, slipping the knife free from where it had rested, easily accessible if need be.

The new recruit stared. "Why do you tape things to yourself?"

"For security," Sayid answered briskly, setting the knife down on a rickety table nearby. He was not in a mood to chat, and inwardly dreaded the barrage of questions that was sure to come. "Knives are unlikely to fall off that way. Holsters and scabbards are unreliable at best, fatal at worst."

"And you are left-handed," the youth replied, sounding sure.

He stared at the boy, shook his head. "Wrong. Right-handed." The new recruit looked confused, and Sayid suddenly knew why. "I tape it to my left side because it's easier to draw the knife that way." He demonstrated the crosswise motion, his bare hand clutched as if gripping a knife. "And I tape it with the blade at the top, because that way, you can seize the knife and come up with it, not down. There's more power behind it that way. Come downwards with it, and you run the risk of dropping the knife or loosening your grip, or missing your mark because of a twitch of the arm."

The new recruit nodded, taking this in. He mimicked Sayid's demonstration, but his arm was far too stiff, held as if he were a Janissary wielding a saber instead of someone with a more flexible modern weapon. He gave Sayid such an eager look, though, searching for acceptance, that Sayid did not have the fortitude to tell him otherwise.

"Very good," Sayid said with phony approval. "Now, I have reports to write, _ya Sidi_…?"

"Qadir – Farouk Qadir."

The name, 'wise and capable' as it meant, amused him. The boy was anything but when it came to military training. Sayid did not think it necessary to inform him of this, though. "Very well, _ya Sidi_ Qadir. I'll make you an offer, though. To which detail have you been assigned?"

"Reconnaissance."

"Very well. Come with me tomorrow, if you're so curious about the journalist. You can meet him for yourself." Sayid wondered if he was making the right decision, but from the way the boy's features lit up, he figured he was. "I have reports, though. Be off."

All of a sudden, the boy, Farouk, was more than happy to oblige.

–––

After _salat-ul-asr_ had begun and the afternoon prayers were performed, they headed towards the trucks to take them from the base to the old Iranian jail. Farouk tagged along after him, looking like a dog or an excited little boy. Sayid felt like he should take the new recruit to a festival, not to an interrogation session, and the weirdness of it suddenly hit him. It had not struck him before. He had thought nothing of inviting the new recruit along. Now, he thought, _I am making the wrong decision. He does not need to see this._ There was nothing to be done for it now, though. He had already requested Farouk's assignment to his detail for the day, and changing it, reassigning the fellow, would be more effort than he cared to put into it.

He had to prepare Farouk, then. He watched the young recruit for a long moment. He could tell Farouk had not been away from his home town very long; he sat there without suspicion, studying everything around him as if this were a class trip to a religious site, grinning like an idiot.

"Farouk," Sayid said, trying to make his voice seem as gentle as possible, "I want to tell you a few things before we arrive at the jail."

"By all means, _ya 'Ammo_. What?"

_Am I really a generation older than he, to warrant the title? Or does he just think that I look that old?_ Farouk's usage of it startled him, but not unpleasantly. He watched the goings-on around them for a long moment, listened to the pieces of conversation. There were a lot of details getting ready today. Something was being done. He did not know what, but he supposed that, had he needed to know, he would have been told. His primary duty was to interrogate the American, and he would not seek further duties, because that could be seen as questioning the rightness of the commanders' choices. He preferred to keep beneath their radar if at all possible, and to simply do his work. He wondered what they thought of him taking Farouk along, if they even cared. They probably did not. The army did not extend courtesies to any of its soldiers, and they would not worry about what Farouk was about to see.

"Call me Sayid, please. What you will see at the jail, Farouk – I must warn you. It may not be pleasant. If it is not something you can handle, I want you to leave the jail cell immediately. Do not feel that you have to stay simply because you think that you are learning something. In interrogation, the goal is to get answers, and we will do a lot to get those answers." He paused, sighing, bringing his glance to meet Farouk's. "We have already done a lot."

The gravity of the situation did not hit the younger man. "Oh, I am sure of it. But he is an American, _ya 'Ammo_." Farouk paused at that, supplanting, "Sayid," and then adding, "So he deserves whatever we give him, as someone belonging to a country that has not obeyed Islam." The last part of it sounded like Farouk was trying to convince himself more than Sayid.

"There is no religion to torture, Farouk," Sayid countered, his voice low. He could not risk his superiors chancing to hear that, but he knew, as seriously as he said it to the boy, that the boy would not take offense at it and report him for it. "The only belief is, 'I can get answers, and I must find a way.' That has nothing to do with Islam, nothing to do with Iraq, nothing to do with the Husseins. It has everything to do with whom you are, and whom your captive is." He tapped his own cap in indication. "What you have up here, and," a tap on the shirtfront, "in here. If you are of strong character, you can do this and stay unspoiled."

Farouk's eyes were wide. He was listening. He was taking it in, Sayid knew, and he felt a rush of relief at that. "And are you of strong character, Sayid?" he wanted to know, the question obvious but somehow seeming startlingly direct, hitting the interrogator's ears in a strange, almost foreign way. "Are you that much of a model?"

"I try to be," Sayid responded, shaking his head. "But I fail. We all fail. The important thing is to know yourself, and to know that what you do – what you are doing to this other person before you – that those actions are not you, but instead are only the circumstance. In another circumstance, that Mr. Dana and I might be friends," he pointed out, using the English title. _No, we wouldn't,_ he thought. _I wouldn't be able to stand him._ That was not the point, though.

The truck jolted, shifting them about some in its bed, and he seized the rifle sitting next to him in preparation before letting his hand relax. There was no threat. It was just a rock or rut in the road, nothing more. They were almost at the jail cell, and as he looked past the truck cab, he could see the hulking structure sitting there, looking like something struck from hellish forges. _And it is to hell that we go to exercise _dhulm_ in the name of our nation,_ he thought. _It is there that we oppress and commit wrongdoings for our great country._ The thoughts felt like heresy, and he shook his head, doing his best to move past them.

Farouk hadn't quite understood. "So why do you get yourself into a circumstance to do these things, Sayid? Why not avoid doing them?"

"Nobody else will do them. Someone must. It is better to have a decent person doing them, even if he is no model, than to have someone doing them who enjoys the process. I hope you understand," Sayid concluded the conversation, swinging off the truck as it parked at the jail, and motioning for Farouk to accompany him.

Even Farouk was quiet as they moved through the jail cell. Again Sayid felt the ghosts all around him, could hear them cry out for mercy, the sound of it wrenching and frightening. He wondered if Farouk heard them too. The boy had his gaze straight ahead, though, as if he was looking forward to meeting the journalist. Sayid realized that Farouk heard nothing and felt nothing.

He gave his charge the keys, and Farouk yanked open the door to the jail cell, revealing Barry Dana once more. The man had grown haggard, tired, had even lost some weight. The newfound absence of a few fingers had doubtless contributed a few pounds to the weight loss. He had not eaten much, and what he had eaten, Sayid saw clearly, he had thrown up.

His face and voice changed. They were not his own now. They did not belong to Sayid the Tikriti anymore. They belonged to Jarrah, the interrogator, and that was not the same person as the first. Sayid compartmentalized, rationalized, like he always did, and then he spoke.

"Mr. Dana, it appears you're not hungry anymore. Surely you haven't decided to become too much of a gourmet to eat our food? I will admit we are not the five-star hotels in Kuwait that you are used to, but you have no doubt learned that we are not as rich as they. At the very least, you could have done us the decency to avoid throwing up the food that we have graciously provided for you."

Farouk moved to a wall, watching, slouching casually. His face was intent, though, and his attention was precisely on the interaction between his superior and the captive journalist.

Dana looked at Sayid, a haunted look on his face. Sayid wondered if they had encountered the same ghosts. "You're going to ask me about the girl again, ain't you? I told you, I don't know nothin' about her other than that she sent a message."

"Give us her name, Mr. Dana. Her name must have been mentioned."

"Al-Jazeera or somethin'. I don't know."

From the wall of the jail cell, Farouk barked out a sarcastic laugh. It seemed he did not realize what Sayid did. Sayid was struck with sudden familiarity, and it wasn't because of the news agency. There was a girl he had known once, with a name close to that. The vague suspicions he had felt when Barry Dana had first mentioned her had grown stronger, and he clenched his teeth, fighting hard not to throw up now himself. The irony was not lost on him, but it did not entertain him, not like Dana's initial capture had entertained him. _If only I could remember what the name was exactly and whose name it was,_ Sayid thought.

Dana caught the uncertain look on his face, and laughed aloud, bitterly. "I guess you don't know either, huh, Mohammed? Just kill me, all right? Get it over with."

Sayid shook his head at that. He had to fight not to look at either of the other men – Dana was watching him like a wounded snake about to strike, and Farouk suddenly had found something even more absorbing about their conversation. "Let's start at the beginning, Mr. Dana. How did you come into possession of the communiqué from this al-Jazeera? And what did you make of it? And if you knew what it said, why in the name of God did you come into Iraq?" He had known the answer to the last question for a while, but the man's blatant stupidity still surprised him. It did each time.

Dana coughed, moving his hand weakly to wipe his mouth on his shirtsleeve. Sayid could see phlegm and blood glisten on the man's sleeve, some of it new, produced by the cough, but not all of it. He began to talk, but there was a fatalism to it that Sayid recognized. For all of his pleadings to save himself earlier, Dana had accepted his fate by now. He knew he would die, just as Sayid had known it.

The difference was, Sayid realized, that Dana had accepted his fate by now. Sayid was not sure if he had come to the same acceptance, and it was an uncertainty that he did not dare probe. After all, he had not been ordered to do so. It was not his place.


	33. Detox Mansion

**XXXIII: Detox Mansion**

Sawyer would have expected the first words to come from them to be something sharp, something angry. He has been lying there for a while, listening to them as they talk around him, trying to get his senses working right again. He almost has got them sorted out, and maybe he moves a little bit. Maybe his hands twitch. Maybe his eyes move beneath his eyelids. Maybe he swallows. Whatever it is, he can feel someone leaning down to stare at him, and he tenses. Beneath a swaddling of bandages, he can feel his wounded right shoulder grow taut. It doesn't hurt, though. He must be doped up pretty thoroughly.

A question is asked of him, startlingly casual. A male voice. Yankee accent. "Want a beer?"

His own question in return."… what?"

The first question, phrased more explicitly. "Would you like a beer?"

That definitely makes Sawyer start in shock. He opens his eyes, staring directly into the glare of a harsh fluorescent light. All around the light is darkness, although he's not sure if it's the room or his own tunnel vision that keeps everything else dark.

"Beer?" His voice cracks on the word. He can almost taste it already. It's been months, and what he wouldn't give for a beer. "Hell, yes," he answers without hesitation. He should be suspicious, he knows, but whatever's going to happen will happen whether or not he's drunk. He doesn't have the willpower to refuse. There is one concern, though, that presents itself at the fore of things. "What sort of beer? I ain't about to drink Bud." _I would, though. Anything. Even that crap. And at least I'm not stammering anymore,_ he thinks. _I'm still feeling fuzzy, but at least I can talk right._

A little green bottle is set nearby his unbandaged arm, and as his vision starts to clear, he sees that the bottle, glinting in the light, is set on a metal table nearby. He recognizes the brand of beer. What he can see beyond that, the undecorated walls and the tiled floor, looks like a hospital ward, and is just about as antiseptic, but there's nothing beeping around him, no nurses bustling around the bed.

"Rolling Rock? But you had to get the tiny bottles," Sawyer points out, trying to force a grin on his face. It almost works. He's too uneasy to really keep it up, though. "Shows how much you think of your company." He swallows, reaching out for the bottle, popping the top. "But thanks," he adds, not wanting to be misunderstood. He can't afford misunderstandings.

He takes a long swig of the beer, and it could be ambrosia. It tastes just about that good. He gulps it down thirstily, downing the bottle in a few short sips. It's the best thing he's ever tasted. As he drinks, he swells his chest out, trying to tell as much as he can. No restraints on the bed. He lets the empty bottle drop, eases his head back down onto the pillow, tries to see something beyond walls, light, table, beer bottle. "So what am I being bribed to do?"

They've shot him up with something again. He can tell. He feels drunker than drunk, and it's not because of the Rolling Rock. They want him to be good. Has he done something bad? Has he screwed up? He figures probably so. That's how he gets through the day.

As his vision clears more, he sees cigarettes and a lighter. He goes for those, too. Nothing wrong with having a smoke, as long as he's already drunk. He lights the cigarette with shaky fingers, takes a drag, blinks rapidly to try and get his eyes to clear some more, to be able to see the person that had offered him the beer.

It occurs to him then: _There are loopholes. There are ways to get out of this. They're not going to keep a close enough watch on me to care if I have a smoke._ He can act like he's thankful for whatever they've done to his shoulder, charm them, and get out of here. It will work. It will have to work.

He breathes out the cigarette smoke, watching it dissipate into the air, scatter in a little cloud and then drift away. He wants to drift away, too. Maybe if they give him more drugs, he will. _That Irish guy, Desmond, he had drugs. But these folks aren't Irish. They're American. So I'll bet they have more drugs. America's a bigger country._ There is something about that train of thought that strikes him as vaguely illogical, but he isn't about to question it at the moment. "So, hey, Colonel Klink – where the hell am I?"

"The same place that you were when you passed out, except you're on the inside." If the speaker has taken offense at the nickname, he hides it well. Not a word is spoken of it. "

He sees red again. He can't get a straight answer out of anyone lately. "Yeah, and where's that?"

There's no answer. Instead, there's silence, and he hears plenty of condemnation in the silence. They're not happy with him. He's asking too many questions. He should just be content that he has been given beer and cigs, become pliable like a normal person, instead of sticking to stubbornness like some damn pushy bastard. That's what they're thinking; he can tell. He stares at the light for a moment longer, wets his lips, feels like he should offer them an apology.

They've been good to him, really. They've fixed up his shoulder. They haven't explained anything to him at all, but that's all right. He shouldn't ask, really. Not if he stands a chance of losing his beer and cigarettes privileges and, besides, he has to make certain his shoulder's fixed. _Then_ he'll leave. He'd thought about taking off earlier, but that was before they started not answering his questions.

"And what's about that body, anyway? Why'd you guys have to do that? What the hell was that for?"

"A warning. For you, not your Irish guide. You didn't listen to it. You don't listen to a lot of warnings, do you?"

"It's a gift." Sawyer moves the cigarette towards his lips again.

It doesn't get there. The Marlboro or whatever is grabbed from him in a preternaturally quick gesture, the cigarette flipping out of his fingers. It doesn't move that far, though. Lit side down, it's pressed against his bare hand, the hot, sharp pain searing into his hand. He yelps aloud, trying to jerk his hand away. It only flails uselessly.

"We want to be nice to you, Mr. Ford."

"No, you don't." _How the hell does Colonel Klink – whomever it is – know my name?_

The cigarette hovers again. He can feel the heat of it streaming down onto the burn, making it feel a billion times worse without even touching. "_Yes_, we do."

He doesn't feel like arguing. He argues nonetheless, moving his hand away as soon as he gets the chance. _Damn, it hurts._ He won't give them the satisfaction of showing them that, though. "All right, you do. You have my best interests at heart, I'm sure. That's why you haven't let me get off this damn island, or any of us. That's why you took the kid and got me shot for it. Yeah, brilliant move there. You guys are real Einsteins."

"You got yourself shot. The doctor wouldn't have been able to save you. We have to, as much as we'd rather see you die – as much as you'd rather die, right?"

It's not right. He doesn't want that anymore. He doesn't tell them that, though. "Why?"

"You hear their voices. That was why we brought you here to the island in the first place."

He's not going to lie. He can't risk being caught up in the lie later. "I hear Duckett's voice, man. That ain't sayin' I hear _voices_, plural."

Colonel Klink finally decides to make himself visible, leaning forward. Sawyer catches a glimpse of red hair, finely-tailored clothes, a face whose features are shadowy, indistinguishable from the gloom in the room. The guy's not imposing at all. _That's funny,_ he thinks as he cradles his pained hand. "We know you hear Duckett's voice," the other man says, moving to stub the cigarette out. "You know that was a setup. You don't know how much."

Sawyer stares for a long moment, shaking his head. "Aw, hell," he begins, but he can't really find words beyond that. He's not sure what to say. There are a million things he wants to say, but none of them work as well as they ought. One question presents itself, then, nags at him so much that he finally figures out how to ask it: "Why me? If that was a setup – why me?"

"Because nobody would miss you, and we knew you would fall for it," Colonel Klink says. His eyes bore into Sawyer's, and he points out, "You thought you were conning people. You're the one that was conned all along, Mr. Ford. Or is it Sawyer now?" There was a little laughter at that. "That's what we heard. That's pretty funny; I'll say that much. You deluded yourself over that search enough to name yourself after it." The man's shoulders shake with laughter, but the enjoyment reaches neither his eyes nor his lips. _"Mr. Sawyer's been dead for almost fifteen years now, you idiot."_

If anything can cripple him, that's it, right there. Sawyer can't process this, can't believe it. He sinks back down onto the pillow, shaking his head, glancing back to the light like that will hide the array of expressions that sweep over his face. Disbelief, doubt, acceptance, worry, terror, then back to disbelief and the whole cycle starts all over again. He feels himself being consumed by the grief all over again. He had felt like a bastard when he'd killed the guy, and he feels worse now, hates the redemption more than the damnation. What he did wasn't even an honest mistake, then. What he did was done with someone else pulling the strings, and he had sworn that would never happen. He had promised himself that much.

They _can't_ be telling him the truth. Then the rest of it was all pointless, the search through God knows how many states and a couple of countries as well, and the trip, and the con jobs that he hoped were bringing him closer and closer still to the other Sawyer, and the _murder_, and the – "I don't believe you," he declares suddenly, fighting hard to maintain his disbelief. "Ain't no damn way. And if it was all one big con, why here? Why on some damn island? Why with these other people?"

That's where the answers stop. Colonel Klink apparently has decided that he does not feel like answering any more questions. In a way, Sawyer can't blame him. Whatever they're doing, he must have messed things up by getting himself shot, and they can't afford losing him, it seems, although he still thinks the reason is bull. At any rate, instead of answering, Colonel Klink leans back away again, out of the light, and gets up again.

The motion makes Sawyer glance that way, and he's conscious of a sudden movement behind the redhead's shoulder. _Cameras. Jesus Christ, they have cameras._ "Hey, have we been watched this entire time we've been on the damn island, or what?"

Colonel Klink doesn't answer. He only tells Sawyer, "Rest," in that same irritatingly patronizing way that Desmond had told him to rest earlier. "We'll talk later. For now, though, you need to get your strength back, get all of the symptoms of the injury out of you, calm down. Just lie here, smoke some cigarettes, drink a little beer. You won't leave." The man sounded convinced of that. "If you do, you'll find out that the jungle has a mind of its own when it comes to eliminating annoyances. And you are definitely an annoyance."

_To you or the jungle?_ Sawyer thinks, but he knows better than to ask that. He lifts his hand – stinging all the while – to his side and then up, giving the Colonel a stiff Nazi salute. "_Ja wohl._" If he could, he'd click his heels, too. "At least get me another beer, man. If I get sloshed, I won't bother you."

Maybe that's encouragement, because Colonel Klink removes a couple of mini-bottles of beer from wherever they are being kept and places them on the table before setting on his way. Sawyer reaches that way without looking for a lighter, fumbles around, touches something metal. It's not the lighter. It's way too thin to be the lighter. It is strangely warm, though, and he seizes on it. It might even burn him a bit, but what with the pain on the back of his hand, he can ignore a little irritation to his fingertips.

He knows what it is already. It's his dogtag, which they took out of his pocket but apparently did not take yet, and he wonders why it's so warm. He turns it over, staring at it a few times. 'JEANY' is written on it. It's misspelled. The initials beneath it - 'M. I.' or something close enough, are chiseled into the surface. He glances up to see if Colonel Klink is still around. Nothing. He's safe. The tag has gone unnoticed. He pockets it. Whatever's going on with it, he wants to control it. There's no way he's letting these bastards get their hands on it.

They're right about one thing, though. He needs rest. He needs for his shoulder to not hurt, without the dope. He needs to be able to use his arm. He needs to play by their rules for a little while, and then he can try to escape like he intends. The conversation has made him more curious, but it's a curiosity that he's willing to sacrifice to haul ass out of here. He just needs to be able to move his shoulder a little better. He has to be able to take them out when the time comes, and he can't do that one-handed.


	34. Genius

**XXXIV: Genius**

"My apologies, but I cannot tell for certain, Munir." Sayid drew himself upright from where he had slouched in the overly comfortable armchair in the Ambassadors' Club lounge, his hands tightening on the chair's arms and his body straight against the chair's back. "Absent a wrench, some access to the planes that I lack, that's impossible for me to determine."

Munir gave him a look like he knew otherwise. Sayid thought, _He thinks that I am hiding something._ The aristocrat's eyelids lowered, giving his clean, precise features a suspicious cast. He studied Sayid for a long moment. "I see," he said quietly, and Sayid heard implied condemnation. "I will trust in you, as I have. There are some things, I am sure, which remain mysteries even to your scientific knowledge. It is only an airplane, however, and you are certainly enough of a genius to figure out what we ask."

Sayid shook his head. "What you ask of me depends more on chance than I am comfortable saying. Any answer I could give you would be a gamble, and gambling is the province of the devil. I will not take that chance with the information you want from me."

There was a long silence. The only sound in the airplane lounge was the humming of the air conditioner and Nasim still flipping through _The Sun_, glossy pages flicking past one another. The boy hadn't paid any attention to their conversation, it seemed, and Sayid was glad for that. He looked back towards Munir, his face a studied blank. He would not give the rich family's scion any trace of a reaction to go upon.

Besides, this did not concern him anymore as much as it once had. Nadia was not in London. She must be in the United States. He had looked everywhere else, so he wanted only to leave England now, to fly across the Atlantic, to start looking in America for her. He had to go there. He had to search the one last place he had left to find her. There was no other alternative, not when he had committed so much time to the search. He would not abandon it now for Munir and his talk of science and scientific experiments. He could not tell Munir this, though. The man would never understand.

Munir took out his pipe again, striking it. Sayid watched the man's hands, the university ring glinting in the light. He'd had a class ring from Cairo University as well, but he never wore it. It seemed too fashionably Western, too modern, too pretentious, and he disliked that. It suited Munir, however. Munir took a drag on the pipe, and Sayid noticed that this time, it was not offered round to himself. "Here is an alternative," was proposed in between puffs on the pipe. "You need not take guesses that you cannot take. You need only work up a schema for us, with the probabilities. I have assured you that this is on the auspices of Oceanic."

"You have," Sayid replied. "I am satisfied of that. But what I don't understand, Munir, is this: You hire me, specifically, to calculate the probability of survivors in an airplane's crash-landing. You want me to work up plans for it. You say that this is not for terrorism, but for a science experiment. If it is for a science experiment, then why do you lack real scientists?"

Impatience crossed Munir's face, and Sayid wondered, momentarily, if he was about to get a lecture. The pipe was taken out, inspected for a moment, before Munir's eyes met Sayid's. His words were not a threat, but somehow, that made them seem worse. "We asked you instead of real scientists, as you say, because you were not in a position to refuse the offer."

Sayid tensed despite himself. _He knows,_ he thought. _Somehow, he knows. But who might have told him, and why now – almost seven years after I left? If they were going to have me before a military tribunal for my actions, they would have done so before I had left._

"And why is that, sir?" he said as steadily as he could.

"You cannot return to Iraq. You are only here, or anywhere, because you are searching for something. I am not sure what." Munir's voice was suspiciously light on those last words, but he did not give Sayid time to counter that. "You are lost, Officer Jarrah, and we have given you an opportunity to find yourself. We will not play chess with you, however. If we are wasting our time, then tell me. We will pay you for what you have done, how you have helped, and then we will not bother you again. We will even send you on your way for your search, with our blessings and God's as well."

It seemed presumptuous of Munir to know what a deity blessed, but Sayid knew enough to avoid pointing that out. He simply shook his head at the man. "I will not commit myself to an operation for which you will not answer simple questions. I am sorry. I must have answers to know I am doing the right thing, and I will not compromise that. Payment, however," he admitted, "for what I have done – that would be appreciated."

"You are too honest, Jarrah," Munir chided him, using Sayid's last name alone. It was not meant as an honorific, Sayid knew. "You warned us of this, certainly, but we did not know. We will trouble you no longer, and we will not report you to the Iraqi attaché."

_They know for certain._ The blank on Sayid's face stayed, transformed itself into a look of confusion, but he knew it was not believable. "I don't under – "

"Now, you are not being honest." Munir's voice was steel. "We know what you did, Jarrah. Your friend with the spectacles – before he went on a shooting rampage, we spoke with him. He said that he knew what you had done for the Jazeem girl, the revolutionary. Couple that with the Qadir boy's information that you found out at the interrogation of Mr. Dana about the communiqué, and, put simply, you were betraying your country for a long while."

That wasn't true, Sayid knew. They were misinterpreting it. He had not known about Nadia – had not put it together – until he had seen her being taken in that day, until he had witnessed her as a prisoner. He had not turned traitor to Iraq until Omar had been shot and he had shot himself, and told her to run. The penalty for treason was death, no matter when it happened, but he had only done so in that instant. He was no traitor, except for Nadia, not for Nadia's ideas. He still believed in Iraq. Of that, there could be no question.

He had to be cautious, now. So he was. "So you intend to blackmail me? Turn me over to the Iraqi embassy, then, and I will report myself for what I have done."

"_You_ play games, Jarrah. We do not. We will not do you such a disservice. You will be paid, and you will be sent on your way. Tickets will be provided; I will meet with you again in Heathrow. If you change your mind before the flight, please let us know." There was a note of desperation in there, but Sayid could not quite figure out why nor, at the moment, did he care. He would not associate with Munir any more in the future than was absolutely necessary. The fellow was dangerous – not personally, but he now held far more power than Sayid would have liked. "Where do you want to go?" Munir asked in conclusion.

Sayid said the first city that came to mind. It had to be believable, and if he looked like he was considering it, it would not be. "New York," he said, and then thought, _Where else?_ "I am grateful," he murmured, though he wondered if he really was.

Munir did not welcome his gratefulness, nor did he bow goodbye. He simply motioned that Sayid should leave the lounge, a flick of the fingers that felt to Sayid like a king dismissing a disobedient servant. Sayid moved for the door, pulling it open and heading into the corridor. He was instantly conscious of footsteps behind him, and a voice, not in Arabic like his previous conversation had been, but in English, calling his name. "Mr. Jarrah!"

Sayid turned to spot Nasim again. He wondered how much the boy had noticed, and how much out of what he had noticed had been understood. He stopped in his tracks, turning to face the boy. "Nasim?"

"Mr. Jarrah, I was listening to your conversation. Hope you don't mind; I know it was a pretty poxy thing of me to do." It was only a formality, Sayid knew. Nothing more. The boy continued, obviously not too concerned whether Sayid minded: "Now, I don't speak a lot of Arabic, you know, because I get to thinking I'm saying the wrong thing, but I can tell what went on there wasn't good."

Sayid waited for the boy to say something useful.

The boy started to walk, too quickly for comfort, motioning Sayid to follow. Sayid did, the sounds of their steps echoing in the airport. "I was listening to Munir and the others talking, earlier. They were speaking to a fellow in English. Oriental bloke. American. Not too sure whom he was, but they mentioned some more things about the planes. I was playing Nintendo and I had my headphones on, and they thought I wasn't listening." He smiled ingenuously, clearly pleased with the deception he'd shown. His voice dropped low, so as not to arouse suspicion. "They mentioned something about a plane crash. I'm not too sure about the whole of it, but I know they said that much. They said that they wanted you to help them."

Sayid shook his head. He did not feel angry, though he felt like he _should_ feel anger. He felt only disappointment for having been lied to, though, for almost believing Munir. His own voice grew quiet, too quiet for the Heathrow guards to hear. "So it is a hijacking?"

"No. Munir asked that, but that wasn't the case."

"Then what was it?"

The boy shrugged helplessly. "Just go to New York and forget about the whole bloody mess, Sayid. You'll be given the money to do so. Just leave." He turned around, shaking his head, his eyes on the ground before him, not looking back towards Sayid as he made his way back to the Ambassadors' Lounge.

Sayid thought, _He knows more than he's telling._ It was not his place to inquire, though, and he had already tempted fate enough today. People knew what he had done to save Nadia and they had not used it to damage him as they might have. They were giving him a chance to extricate himself from a dangerous situation, and for all that he would not gamble on telling Munir the details of the airplanes that he did not know, he also would not gamble to stay in a situation in which he clearly was unwelcome.

Besides, as long as they were not planning anything other than a simple science experiment, he could afford them some room. He was not concerned with it. There was nothing with which to be concerned. Science followed rules, order, good. He had no reason to believe otherwise, and he would not believe otherwise simply because he personally disliked Munir and the aristocrat had tried to blackmail him. He had not even been really blackmailed, either. All in all, he had made out well.

He was safe. He had done the right thing, the smart thing. He had not overplayed his hand. _Do not think that, Sayid,_ he told himself. _God does not favor gambling._ He would allow himself this lapse, though, for it was appropriate. He had gambled today and, from what he could tell, he had won. It had been difficult, but most things that mattered had always been difficult, so today was no different. He would only need to receive money from Munir for what services he had rendered, and he would be on his way. He was safe, and he was close to finding Nadia – because he had to be by now – and he had done the intelligent thing by not getting involved any further than he was comfortable. As he left the airport, heading from Terminal 4 into the south, the setting sun to his right, he realized that, for once, he was happy with his chances.


	35. Worrier King

**XXXV: Worrier King**

This was a first. He couldn't see a way out of it. Hibbs was somewhere – where? – but he couldn't think about the other guy at the moment. He had to think about himself. A bit shaky but none the worse for wear, Sawyer leaned against the brick wall of the Italian restaurant, pulled out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, lit it up. The routine of smoking was familiar. It calmed him a little, though not as much as he would have liked.

The marks had figured out the fakery way too early, and he had been run out of the restaurant. Lucky him, to play the poor man. It was pretty galling, really. To be kicked out of a restaurant like that: It bothered him lots, and he wasn't sure why.

He had left the jewelry at their table. All that had gone right. And he looked the part of the poor man, too, with a cheap flannel shirt and his beat-up leather jacket. He had expensive stuff and didn't know it, was the idea, and Hibbs was the buyer, with money to burn and with more discernment about the jewelry than he himself had. That was the way it was supposed to go. They had figured out the target here in Tampa, had haunted the place for the last week making sure that their marks were stupid enough and greedy enough with their nightly meals out to fall for this. They had been, Hibbs assured him.

It was strange, though. Hibbs hadn't left as quickly as he should have, and he had missed his timing, and timing in this was crucial. So even though he had recovered nicely enough, there was still something off about his patter, and they knew it. One look at their eyes told him that much. So he had pocketed the jewelry when they weren't looking and beat it for the door, and then – there he was, standing, smoking, trying to figure things out, waiting for Hibbs to show up again.

For all of Hibbs' planning, things sure had been figured out way too easily. Something nagged at him about that, something that felt oddly like betrayal. Hibbs wouldn't have set him up, but, really, what other explanation was there? He had done nothing wrong. He was too experienced at this sort of thing, and theoretically, Hibbs was too. They should have been fine.

"Sawbucks." Hibbs' voice, and he couldn't quite place the emotion behind it. He hoped that it was apology, but didn't think it was.

Sawyer took a drag on the cigarette, not looking up. The hell with Hibbs. "What the hell was that?" was his answer to yet another hated nickname. "What the hell were you trying to do? We went over this time and again, Hibbs, and when it comes down to it, you screw it up? Ain't exactly gettin' off on a good start, is it? We were _supposed_ to get five thousand bucks out of this. I fronted two thousand, and that's two thousand I'm not gonna get back, 'cos we already gave it to them – all for some cheap costume jewelry." He resisted the urge to take the Woolworth's box out and throw it at the older man, but with difficulty.

"Yeah." It wasn't an agreement. Sawyer could tell. "I wasn't trying to do anything. You should've figured out the timing. You didn't. Your loss, for the money."

"We had this _planned_, Hibbs," Sawyer hissed. He was past caring, though, and so the statement didn't carry a lot of weight to it. "We had this planned, and the least you could've done would've been to get the damn thing right. You hired me because I'm good, and _you_ screwed it up."

He took a step towards Hibbs, and then another, tossing his cigarette away. If it came to it, he could beat him up. He was bigger and stronger than Hibbs; Hibbs was rounder and shorter. He didn't feel imposing, though, or angry. He felt drained. The fight to come didn't entertain him like it might have when he was ten years younger. He would have rather avoided it. With the way he was looming down on his boss, though, he knew that avoidance wasn't an option. "Next time we do this, if there _is_ a next time, I'm callin' the shots. Got it?" His voice snapped out to Hibbs, crackling. Above them, a street-lamp buzzed and then went out. Hibbs looked up, and Sawyer took the opportunity, closing in fast. If he was going to beat the guy down, he would have to catch him by surprise and work fast.

No such luck. He'd underestimated Hibbs. As he drew back his hand to throw a punch, he saw something metal gleaming. Knife or gun? He didn't want to find out from experience. He hung back, staring at the other man, momentarily struck speechless.

Hibbs smiled, flipping the knife – he saw it was a knife – away. "Good," he declared approvingly. "You caught yourself. You're smart. That's what I've always liked about you. That's the _only_ thing I've liked about you. If you weren't smart, boy, we wouldn't still be doin' business."

He saw a way out, then, and he took it, pulling his jacket closer to him."That's right, Hibbs. We ain't doin' business any longer." He thought he saw a look of approval cross Hibbs' face, but wasn't sure. Maybe it was a trick of the light. In any case, he shook his head, pulled himself together. "If you can't run a decent fiddle-game con, I don't want a damn thing to do with you."

"And what are you gonna do, then? You won't change. You're just gonna be the same guy you always were. You think you're gonna do something different than being a con man?" He shook his head. "You were lying to me from the moment you gave me your name. Frank Sawyer. Right." Sawyer must have looked shocked, because Hibbs nodded towards him, grinning. "Didn't think I figured it out, did you? See, you're smart, but I'm smart, too. I saw your letter. You wrote that _to_ Frank Sawyer."

Sawyer stood there, blinking. He wasn't shocked by the information. He was shocked that Hibbs had figured it out, though. He shrugged, tried to cover. "Yeah, and? Big deal; I didn't tell you my name."

"Point is, you're never gonna change. You're just gonna be frozen there, same thing that you always were. You can't leave this sort of thing. What _is_ your real name, anyway? It ain't Sawyer."

"It ain't Sawyer," Sawyer confirmed. "It's James, all right? James Ford." Using the name again felt strange, put a tinny taste in his mouth. It was alien to him now. He drew away from Hibbs, shaking his head. He needed to think. He needed to figure out why this had gone so wrong. This was awful. He ran a hand over his face, moved to light up a second cigarette. "James Ford," he repeated, still trying to get used to the name. It took some doing. "You can't use that name in public, though. The guy – the money – he'll come after me." He had explained it more in detail before. "I don't even know why I'm trustin' you with it. You never did anything for me anyway."

Hibbs nodded. His voice was even, almost measured. "You're trusting me because you haven't used that name for a while. You need to use it with someone. I won't let on, though. Don't you worry. If I do find this Frank Sawyer for you, though, I'll let you know. I'll search through our files."

The reference jerked Sawyer back to the facts: Hibbs had been a cop. He had been a crooked cop, and he was no longer a cop, but he was a guy with plenty of connections, nonetheless. He could be a resource, then. He was offering that much, and Sawyer would have had to be a fool not to accept. "Right," he said, trying hard not to sound like the prospect meant as much as it did. "Thanks."

"Anything I can do to make up for things tonight," Hibbs replied. Sawyer sensed a hollowness in the other man's voice, but he didn't care about it. "For now, here's some money to get you out of Tampa." His boss opened up his wallet, giving up the money in such a ready way that Sawyer knew he had to have plenty more in the billfold. Sawyer stared, but didn't ask for more. "You got somewhere to go?" It was a formality. Hibbs didn't really want to know.

"Yeah," Sawyer lied. There was no reason to unburden himself on the guy. "Yeah, I'll be fine." He turned away from Hibbs. Now seemed an appropriate time to make the threat he'd wanted to earlier, before his acquaintance had gotten the drop on him. "And listen, Hibbs, next time I see you again, I'll kill you." The casualness of the threat startled him a bit, but he didn't dare evidence his surprise at himself.

"You won't," Hibbs replied, and Sawyer knew it was the truth. He stopped, about to turn back towards Hibbs, and then decided, _It's not worth it. He's not worth it. It isn't like he's got anything to do with anything anymore._ "You aren't the killing type, Sawyer." He used that name, not the name he had heard being claimed, and Sawyer wondered about that, too, but didn't inquire. "If I come across anything, I'll let you know. Where will you go?"

"I'm gettin' the hell out of Tampa, for one," Sawyer replied. "Ain't nowhere around here to go." That was not entirely the truth, but he gave Hibbs a broad smile, and Hibbs believed him. People generally did.

–––

"I know you're there," she said, and he started in surprise. He hadn't meant for her to discover him. He had meant to head in, grab his stuff, and take off, but she was standing there, and as she flicked the light, he caught a glimpse of her, her hair unnaturally bright in the sudden light. Glowing, almost. Distracted by it for a moment, he didn't notice that she had been asleep. She had said she would wait up for him and she hadn't. He took that as a sign, almost. She didn't need him anymore, and he was sure that he didn't need her.

"James," she began, as if she wanted to apologize for something before he could say anything else. "You look upset."

"I _am_ upset." He went for a beer, first, grabbing it, taking a sip. There was a moment of uncomfortable recognition, the taste of the beer registering unpleasantly. "Budweiser. You got Budweiser. You know I don't drink this." He'd been living here for a few months, off-and-on. She had never bought that stuff before. Why tonight?

She gave him a smile. It was apologetic, too. Everything about her was apology, tonight. He didn't know why. He didn't think she was screwing around on him. They weren't committed, and he'd hooked up with a few girls since he'd started hanging out at her place more often, but things like that didn't happen to him. As if to confirm his thoughts about himself, she drew close to him, affectionate. "How did it go tonight?"

"Like hell," he replied, honest. He ran a hand through his hair, pulled away from her arm on his own. "They made us. They made us and they had me kicked out of the damn restaurant." His anger at that rose, and he choked it down, shaking his head. "Damn. I mean, I was hoping – you know." His voice caught again, and he had to sigh to get it back on track.

"Yeah," she said, more aware than he had previously given her credit for. He did not need to explain. "I know. You're leaving, right?"

"For a little while," he said. He knew that it was a lie. She knew that it was too, from the half-smirk that drifted onto her face at that. As if to make things even more pathetic, seemingly unable to resist, he added, "But I'll be back, darlin'." He tried his best for a broad grin.

"You won't." She said it like she already knew. She probably did. She tugged at the collar of her nightgown, signaling nervousness, pushed the sleeves down on it. It was one of his T-shirts he'd lent her. He wanted to stay down here in Florida with her. _If the job tonight would have worked, I would have done well. But I can't stay here. Next time I go out, someone will make me, and they'll toss me in jail, and that's the worst place for someone like me._ In a way, it was easier just to cut his ties, to take off without her and to hit the road again and find some new marks to swindle, than to face up to jail. He felt like a heel for that, but it was the truth.

"That shirt you've got on. Yeah, the Volunteers. Keep it." He managed, at last, to smile. "And if Hibbs comes around asking about me, or any of his friends, or any of Kilo's friends, or any-damn-body else, you ain't seen me, got it?"

She paused for a moment and then nodded. Her bare feet dug into the kitchen rug. "James," she repeated his name, "Promise me that if you find what you're after, you'll let me know."

"Second person on my list," he replied. Given the chance, he would tell her. He resolved that to himself. "And Jeannie?" She looked up. Caught by surprise, she looked vaguely suspicious, somehow, like she was thinking something she did not want to share with him. That was all right, though. He didn't want to get into a fight tonight. He wasn't nearly drunk enough, and she wasn't nearly loud enough. "Look, I didn't mean for this to turn into anything. Just so you know." He was not sure why that would be a comfort to her, but something in him told him it would be. He hoped his instinct was correct.

"Us or the job you were doing?"

That, he couldn't answer. He shrugged at her weakly, started for the room in which he'd been keeping his duffel bag when he'd been staying over here. "I have to pack. I'll see you around, huh?"

She did not answer. As he walked towards the door, he started to worry. What if she really didn't see him again? He remembered how they'd left the last time they'd broken up, her heading for the Mack truck and hitchhiking back to Knoxville proper, him trying his damnedest to push the car out of the ditch. She had left him then, and now he was leaving her. The symmetry of it was too perfect. He would not see her again. He was sure of that. He trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him to tell her goodbye. Instead, when she was in the bathroom, he took the opportunity to slip out without saying goodbye. It was so much easier that way.

When he gunned the motor to his beat-up car, he could have sworn that, through the Venetian blinds, he could see her outline with a telephone cord leading from it. He did not care who was being called, though. She was free now, and he hoped he would be, too.


	36. The French Inhaler

**XXXVI: The French Inhaler**

She is conscious of him at her elbow before he speaks, but she does nothing to avoid him. "We have to talk," he announces, as if his decision matters to the world at large. "It's important," he adds, as if she had the choice to think otherwise.

She smiles at him, though, and turns from where she's been studying the books in the hatch, eyes peeled for anything else that looks suspicious. "Jack?"

"Michael's out there, yelling about how he's going to find his kid. He's going crazy. It'll probably only be a matter of time before he runs off. According to Hurley, you were the last person to speak with him down here in the hatch." Jack doesn't even try to hide his suspicion. "You shouldn't have done that," he declares brusquely. "We're spread thin enough as it is."

She shrugs, dusts her hands off, slides them into her pockets. "I told him he would have to find his kid on his own, that I couldn't say anything that would help him. What should I have said?" She nods towards the computer. There was supposed to be someone on it – the Korean man, she suspects, but he's stepped out for a bit. They've only just entered the numbers recently. "He sat there all day like he could speak to the kid on that, and I couldn't just watch it."

"You shouldn't have told him to go out after him."

She's speechless for a long moment, shaking her head. "Right. Well, look, I'm sorry. He didn't run off – that's the important part. You still have him?" Jack nods. "Well, can I speak to him, then?" she asks. At Jack's suspicious look, she stresses, "I'm a _psychologist_, Jack. This is what I do."

He laughs sharply. "Not all that successfully, apparently."

She turns away. "Bring him down here, please, Jack. I'll talk to him. I'll convince him that Walt will turn up. Trust me." Something in her words convinces him, despite his suspicion. In case it helps, she adds, "I promise, nothing will happen."

Jack's retreating footsteps are the only proof for at least a few moments that he has done what she's asked, but then she sees Michael and Hurley at the door to the hatch. The Korean's returned, standing with them. "Michael," Jin announces. "You talk – Michael. Tell Michael Walt is safe." _He understands far better than Jack, and he can barely tell what we're saying,_ Libby realizes. She smiles towards the two accompaniments, but her attention is focused on Michael:

"Michael, look," she begins, then wonders if that was the best way to go about it. "You're upset, and I'm sorry if I made you upset. That wasn't my intention. I know I told you to find Walt." She pauses a moment, glances towards Hurley. Hurley gives her a thumbs-up; she nods her thanks to the young man and then continues. "But you can't go running after him. We both know what's out there. If we go out there without proper guides and people who can use guns, who knows what could happen? Right now, both of those are gone."

"Yeah, I know they're gone. They abandoned my kid." Michael takes a seat at the computer chair, staring at her. Hurley and Jin move off to slouch around the room, and she sits down on the couch again, thinking, _This is a repeat of the last conversation I had with Michael, except now I have an audience._ Michael notices, too. "And look where we are – we're still sitting here, talking about the same damn thing. They took my kid. They took Walt. And I have to go find him."

She can say nothing comforting, but from the look in his eyes, she knows he wants reassurance. She decides, instead,to change the topic. "Do you know where he is?" she asks steadily. "How?"

Michael shrugs, not saying anything for a long moment. He's apparently not that deceptive, though, as she suspected, because he points a thumb towards the computer. _"This."_ Regarding the machine, his voice is a weird combination of reverence, hatred, and desperation. "I spoke with Walt on this. Walt said he was all right. He asked me if I was alone. I said, yeah, I was. And then I asked him where he was. He told me."

Unable to restrain himself, Hurley lets out an exclamatory, "Dude! Where?"

"He didn't say, really, but he told me to leave the camp and go north. So I'll go north."

She runs a hand through her hair, feeling anxious. She's not making as much progress with him as she had hoped. From the corner of her eye, she's seen Jin blink a bit at the word 'north,' apparently getting that much information. "Michael, if you want to go find Walt, we'll go find him. But we have to wait until the others get back. They're better at finding people."

"Yeah, well, they've been out there a day or so, right? They can't be doing that good of a job. And it took you guys a long time to get across the island, anyway." Michael shakes his head. "No. _I_ need to find my son. He's _my_ son." He jabs a thumb at himself, and she wonders: Had there been some sort of question where that was concerned before? Had Walt not always been his son? She decides to avoid those questions, though. There's no sense in worsening things. "And I won't have people who can't even cross an island looking for Walt."

"And what will you do about it?" she asks, keeping her voice as sensible as possible. "How will you track him? Please wait, Michael."

"Yeah, Walt's all right," Hurley encourages her suggestion. "You just need to stick around here until the other guys come back, and they'll find him for you. I'd offer to help you out, but I don't think you want me hiking anywhere," he adds, startlingly self-deprecatory.

Libby shakes her head at Hurley, looking back towards Michael. Her voice sounds strained. "_Please_, Michael. Just give it a little more time." She looks towards the computer, considering. "You said that you talked with him on that? Do you think you can talk with him again?"

Michael too glances at the computer. He's still tense, and it shows in the tense way he holds himself, the tautness of his forearms, the tightness of his voice. He is not as easily relaxed as she would have hoped. He is, however, calm enough to give her a half-suspicious,"Man, I hope so."

That's good enough for her. "Then go on. See if you can talk to him. At least you'll be doing something to try and find him. Jin," she adds, looking towards the Korean, "Michael's going to be down here for a little while."

Jin nods, turning for the exit with an, "OK, Michael, Lib-by. Be well." He points a finger at himself. "I will fish. Eat at sundown," and then takes off, apparently reassured that his friend is all right.

Libby wonders exactly how much of the conversation he has caught, but decides that it's not really that important anyway. She must concentrate on Michael. She has promised Jack that she will set things right with him and she needs to make sure she's done so. She draws herself up from the couch. _Mission accomplished,_ she thinks. _At least Michael's better off now._ She glances back at the bookshelves, and Hurley apparently notices this. He rises from where he's been sitting, taking a few steps towards her before he reaches into his backpack. "Hey, Libby. You want your book back?"

She freezes, staring at him for a moment. _So much for that secret._ "Book? Yeah. Sure." She extends a hand towards him for the book, waiting. Michael slouches behind the computer, his focus on the screen, but she hears no clacking of computer keys to announce that he has made contact with his son. "What do you think it's about, Hurley?"

Hurley shrugs. "Rules, looks like." He grins. "It's a boring book." Despite his dislike for the piece of literature, he flips it open, turning a few pages. "Get this – they're talking about this place. They say that they'll ship food here, but we haven't seen any shipments, have we? I mean, they've got to be joking. Or they've got to be gone." He flips a few more pages. "And check out this dude. He looks like a piece of work. I can't believe he ran the place, but that's what it says."

He holds up the book to her, showing her a face of a man in his fifties.

She studies it. Her mouth drops open. She recognizes him. The face is older, more careworn, but the weird features and the piercing cast of his eyes are recognizable. The man wears a lab coat, just like she always knew he did at the clinic, but there is something beyond that that makes him instantly recognizable. She shakes her head, and has to reach out for the bookshelf to support herself. Her arm wavers a bit before managing to land on one of the shelves, and she clutches it as tightly as she possibly can.

Hurley stares at her for a moment, shaking his head, turning back to the pages. "O… K. Hey, you recognize him or something? Says here his name is Dr. Candle." As he studies the book, his brows are raised as if he thinks she's crazy. Maybe she is, now, because she must be seeing things.

"Dr. Norman Lee," she corrects him. "Yes. I know him. He – he was my boss at Bellevue a few years ago." She gives Hurley a quick look, praying that he won't volunteer information about himself that she's beaten herself up over being unable to keep secret. _My boss and maybe more than that? Who knows, really?_ It takes her a long moment to recover herself and get her composition back, to be able to concentrate on the world around her. During that moment, all Hurley and Michael can do is stare.


	37. Mutineer

**XXXVII: Mutineer**

The boy's face is visible through the brush, dripping wet. Had he got caught in the rainstorm? Sayid can only assume so. The rest of them are wet, too, sodden from the sudden deluge of water that seems to have only heralded fire, so of course Walt too is wet. Sayid stares for a long, hard moment at the boy. He's not seeing things. The boy is there. From the way that the others are staring, he can only assume that they're seeing the same thing.

"What the…" Ana-Lucia's voice is the first to break the silence, perhaps unsurprisingly. "There's a kid there. A little kid!" And she starts to tromp through the brush, heading impulsively straight for Walt's small form.

"Ana!" Sayid exclaims, and he hears the others' voices likewise urging her to stop, but she does not listen. He had not expected her to do so.

The only thing that stops her from going further is Mr. Eko catching up with her in a few long strides, seizing her and restraining her. She is no match for the Nigerian, who seizes her and holds her fast, tossing the fuselage castaways a sharp look, urging them to do something.

It is not they who act first, however. Instead, Walt takes a step forward and then another. Water streaks his face, weighs down his clothes, makes him look like a shipwrecked cabin boy. His eyes are wide, his expression intent and serious.

"Go back – nothing here."

They stare. Nobody moves now, not even Ana-Lucia.

Walt takes another step towards them, and for all of his lack of size, the boy seems tall, then, and looming. "Don't push the button. The button's bad."

They barely dare to breathe now, let alone move.

Walt's figure ripples, his body jerking spasmodically, and he takes a few steps backwards, the ferns around him unmoving. Sayid drops his gaze to the ground, studying it closely. It does not take long for him to isolate the wrongness of things: The sunlight on the path before Walt is bright, the foliage underfoot undisturbed.

_He is not real._

It is hard to fathom, though, and from next to him, he hears Kate let out a shocked little cry that he thinks might well speak for all of them at the moment. He turns, searching the trees for some sort of system, something that might give away the illusion, but there is nothing, only leaves and branches and patches of sky beyond.

"Well," Locke says, a strange little grin on his face, "looks like we've got ourselves an audience." His eyes travel past the group, too, but to the path ahead, where they were going. "If they are watching us, we can get them to come out if you'd like." Locke glances back towards him. "What do you think, Sayid?"

Sayid shakes his head. "We must keep moving. We must not bait them. They are trying to distract us again." The woman in the _hijab_ still sticks in his mind, and as he takes out the dog tag again to study it, he turns it over a few times. It very definitely says Nadia. And the L.W. suddenly makes sense. He stares at it when the idea hits, uncertain of it. But it makes sense. If it was written from the front… it would be backwards on the back. W.L. Walt Lloyd.

_He was not real._

The thought enters his mind again, denying the existence of those letters. _And if he was real, he would have done something more._ He would have wanted to come with us. The phantasm did not want any of that, though, and he is even more sure from that reluctance that it was neither Walt nor something in Walt's control. _Nonetheless, when Shannon saw Walt, he did not move towards her. He warned her to silence. If that was really Walt, anyway…_

He is not even sure about that, now. He does not know what to think. All he knows is that now, when he shoulders his gear and starts moving again, he will distrust anything he sees. He will not believe it is true. That could be dangerous. If he does not believe that the gun facing him is true, them he is certainly likely to fall prey to it. He must find a way that he knows what to believe and what to disbelieve. He saw Nadia, though. Of that, he has no doubt. He saw her, before she turned to Walt. It is strange, though, that none of the others mention Nadia. Was he hallucinating? The idea troubles him.

"Still not convinced that it's a good idea to turn back?" Locke's voice is close again, and he turns towards the older man, who is staring at him intently. "They know we're here. Do you think that they'll just turn over Sawyer to us?" He shakes his head, answering his own question. "Of course not. So this search – all this – is pointless."

Sayid shuts his eyes, letting a sigh escape, sounding appropriately long-suffering. _Will the man never stop?_ He takes a few more steps, brushing foliage out of the way, and then turns towards Locke. "We have spent the last day getting shot at, watching hatches burn down, and apparently seeing phantasms, and even now you want to leave? John, I am not keeping you here. You are free to go. Why are you so concerned, anyway? If you know something you are not sharing with the rest of us, please, share it."

Locke stares back at him for a long moment, and then turns, visibly squaring off. Sayid stops short, turning to face him as well. "Well?" he prompts Locke, his voice quiet.

What he doesn't expect is for the bald man to not only speak with equal quietness, but, eerily enough, to make sense. _That is a sign that you've spent too much time in the jungle,_ Sayid thinks, but he doesn't dare say it. Instead, he can only listen to Locke's voice, calm as ever: "When I landed on the island, Sayid, I thought: I've been given a gift. I've been given the ability to walk. That was something that I thought I'd never have again, and I had it. You think that I'm hiding something; I'm not. Not about this. If I were, I wouldn't have agreed to, uh, travel with you folks. I would have done my best to stop it. I haven't."

_His legs?_ Sayid wonders about this. There are more damning points against Locke than that perplexing matter, however, and one in particular comes up yet again. "The radio – have you forgotten about that? You were very interested in my transmissions, just like you were before," Sayid points out. "That does not bespeak someone wanting to leave the island."

"I _don't_," Locke admits. "But I agreed to help you find Sawyer, and I will."

Something in Locke's face tells Sayid that he is telling the truth. "Very well," Sayid responds, bemused. "But I will not brook any more disagreement. We must work together, John, not apart." He lapses into silence. There is nothing more he needs to tell Locke.

Their small group moves through the trees more quickly, now, undisturbed by anything remotely hallucinatory. While he suspects this might satisfy some of the others, it only makes Sayid further concerned. If they are not being scared off, that means that the Others' resources are concentrated somewhere else. If the resources are concentrated somewhere else, where are they? What are they doing? At least, if they are being shot at, then there is enough of a chance that the group is diverting all of its resources towards them. Something has made them confident again, though, and that worries him.

Despite himself, he wants to see the vision again. He knows that it was false, and although he wonders how it was produced, how they knew to show it to him, he wants to see it again anyway. The few seconds that he saw her have grounded him, as has having her name with him. If they meant to startle him, they did a bad job of it. Fleeting though it was, the vision has put things into perspective for him. He needs not be afraid of anything on this island, because he has things to do once they are found.

_We are strong enough for this place, and we have held together so far. We will do what we have set out to do, and nothing they can do will stop us._ It is an old resolution, previously promised in far different circumstances, but he promises it again, and his pace quickens with it. They will see their duties through. He was an officer before, back in the Guard, but today, he realizes, is the first time he has truly felt honored to lead.


	38. Even a Dog Can Shake Hands

**XXXVIII: Even a Dog Can Shake Hands**

Lying around wounded gives you a lot of time to think, and that's not always a good thing, Sawyer has come to realize. He has run over dozens of possible scenarios in his head, from thrilling escapes to gory tragedies, and it always comes down to one thing: He is being watched. He is well aware he is being watched, and in case he forgets, people come in from time to time to remind him of the fact, to give him some medication for his shoulder, to talk and ask him about the plane crash. He tells them as fairly as he can: Not enough to arouse suspicion, but not too much that he feels like he's giving something away he shouldn't give away. _They already know all about it anyway, so they're just asking me to see how I react._ He does his level best to give them no reaction at all.

He doesn't see Colonel Klink again for a while, and that's fine with him. The nameless people that see to him don't concern him. He wonders how often they have visitors in here and suspects not very often. Their bedside manner could use some work. When they unwrap his bandage to check on his injury, they treat his arm less gingerly than he would have liked. He's not in a position to demand better treatment, though, and they've given him even more cigarettes and beer, so who's he to judge?

Instead, in between sips of Rolling Rock, he moves past harebrained escape plans and onto further, less idle speculation. They know Frank Sawyer. They know he's been dead. They know there's a connection there. That connection is apparently important, and he tries to isolate on it. It's not like he has anything else to think about, books to read, anything like that.

_"That letter of yours, Jimmy. Can I read it?" What could he say? He couldn't tell the newspaper reporter no. There were no secrets to the letter, really. There was nothing to hide yet. All he had scrawled on it was, 'Dear Mr. Sawyer,' and he had always thought it was funny how Dana's face changed, shifted, turned _different_ somehow when he read those three words. James hadn't known what to think._

Sawyer had gotten the letter back, though, and he had kept it. He has it still – doesn't he? A sudden panic attack seizes him, and he moves his free hand to his pockets, the burn on it still stinging, sending shooting pains into his fingers and wrist and across his palm with each minute movement of the hand. The dog-tag is there. That much is real. The letter… the letter… is somewhere. Somewhere here. He has to have it. They can't have taken it from him. They've already taken away Frank Sawyer's death from him, and if he loses the letter, that's it, lights out, curtain down, goodnight nurse, so long and no thanks for the memories.

It's there. The paper is still there. They haven't taken it. They haven't taken it because they want him to know that they've seen it. He seizes it despite himself, yanks it from his pocket, the notebook paper familiar. He knows every crease of it.

He unfolds the paper in a hurry, almost spills beer on it, manages to avoid that only through some sleight-of-hand that would have amazed Houdini, he thinks. The scrawls are still striking in their childish fervor, and he reads the note again, recites its words like a mantra. It's calming, somehow. To know what he went through at home helps him focus. That's what matters. Not this damn island that put a bullet in his shoulder, that's now holding him hostage. Screw all that.

"Dear Mr. Sawyer," someone says, and for a moment, he's not sure if it's his voice or someone else's. He glances up and sees Colonel Klink. He knows him from somewhere. The guy's figure is familiar, although the nondescript face could be placed on any of several dozen marks that he's conned over the years, maybe more. "Oh, we saw the letter; don't you worry about that. Still haven't figured it out?" The redheaded man smiles, raising a hand to scratch at the bridge of his nose.

The gesture is familiar, too, and it sends a shock down Sawyer's veins, but he can't quite figure it. Maybe someone, somewhere. Maybe if he weren't so doped up, he could figure it out. As it is, he just stares uselessly, stabs a finger at Colonel Klink before letting his hand fall back onto the bed again.

Colonel Klink shakes his head, clearly quite disappointed. "You have drunk four bottles of Rolling Rock and smoked eight cigarettes since you have been here. We have wasted fifteen hours of our time dealing with you. We will not spend sixteen without you becoming less of a disappointment to us. You were supposed to be smart, a good candidate, but it seems we have been misinformed, like we were with the brother and sister."

"A candidate for what? Whatever you're sellin', I'm not buyin'."

"Becoming part of the island." It's spoken as if it's an offer for a walk to the store, just that simple and congenial. Colonel Klink leans against the wall, folding his arms. "You all will. You're just the first we've picked. You're the most volatile, so you're the worst threat."

"Damn straight I'm a threat," Sawyer replies. He can't make it sound as forceful as he'd like. The drink is getting to him a bit, taking off some of his edges.

Colonel Klink continues as if he hasn't even heard that. "You'll become less so, though, given time and education. In fact, you already are becoming less so. For example, you have made no move to leave. You're content here, whether or not you admit it to yourself. You can acclimate yourself to more and more, given a proper opportunity, and when the time comes for you to be part of the plan, you will do so gladly, because you'll be used to being pleased with us."

He shouldn't laugh. He knows he shouldn't. Every single cell in his brain screams at him not to laugh, because, Jesus, these guys are serious, but he does it anyway. He lets a sharp burst of laughter escape his lips, rocket over to Colonel Klink like it's a full-bore assault against what the guy's saying. "Listen, you delusional freak." Even though the other man doesn't react, Sawyer mulls over the words, decides to be a bit more polite from then out: "Thanks for puttin' my arm right, but I ain't interested. Go find yourself another mark."

"We already have. Several dozen of you, in fact, currently camped out on the beaches. Or beach, I should say, now. That's good, though. It's good that you're doing that, because that'll make it easier. Less places to monitor. We had initially planned to keep the two of you separate, the select group and the substitutes, but since you've joined," Colonel Klink shrugs, "Well, I'm no scientist, but I would imagine it's fine."

Sawyer shoves the paper away. He'd forgotten about it in the past few minutes, but now it's right there again. "So you're going to take 'em one-by-one like that Agatha what's-her-face novel? With the Indians? _Ten Little Indians_? And you don't think that that's gonna come back to bite you?"

"We have measures to prevent that, and reasons to believe that your friends won't attack."

Sawyer shakes his head in sharp disagreement. "Yeah, well, screw that. I know them. I _know_ them, and they will. Maybe not for me, but they will when they start losin' two, three, four more."

"You won't be lost, though. We'll have found you." Colonel Klink's eyes are glassy. "And you do want to be found. Your whole life, right? You wanted your family to find you when you were seven, and they didn't. You wanted Mr. Sawyer to find you, so you could kill him, and he didn't. You wanted your family to find you again, when you were an adult, and they didn't. And then when you found someone else, that was taken away from you in Tampa. That's a hell of a sob story. Don't you deserve better?"

He can't argue with that logic. He stares, stunned. The rightness of it hits him. He deserves more than that, and he has never gotten it. They can't offer it, though; he knows that, but there's something about this that sounds convincing. Maybe, _maybe_ they do offer him something fair and square that's worth having. Maybe they're right. He glances away from Colonel Klink, his eyes scanning the wall beyond.

"So you folks killed Shannon and Boone."

"Wrong. Miss Cortez killed Miss Rutherford and the plane killed Mr. Carlyle. We only made it possible for those things to happen, gave them each a chance of occurring. We provided the resources."

He ignores that. The hell with semantics. "And you folks took Walt. Where is he?"

"Oh, yes. The young Mr. Lloyd. He is quite well. He is better than he was before."

"You kill him?"

"Not exactly."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"In some sense, he's still alive. Just like you will be." The redheaded man motions Sawyer to the beer again. "You look thirsty. And you are asking too many questions. You really have no sense of how to hold a conversation with people, do you? That's not optimal. We'll have to work on that."

Sawyer reaches out for the beer – _what the hell; may as well_ – and opens it deliberately, taking a long, long sip. He watches the redheaded man, everything about his drinking quite deliberate. _See, you bastard. I can outsmart you. You think that I'm not going to drink the beer; you've got another think coming._ He sets the Rolling Rock down on the sidetable, runs a hand over his mouth, and laughs again, suddenly. He's doing exactly what they want him to do anyway. They want him to disobey, because that's predictable and they want him to obey, because that's predictable. He'd been so careful before when he was talking to them, done his best not to play into their hands either way, and here he has been outsmarted on the account of beer. There's a moral there, somewhere.

Colonel Klink laughs too, as if he knows exactly what Sawyer's just figured out. Sawyer suspects that he might well know. The man steps away from the wall, and for all of the guy's talk about fitting in, about how he, Sawyer, needs to straighten himself out and learn how to work together, Sawyer would have thought that the guy could have found a suit that fits him well, because although the suit looks fine from afar, he's just not quite up to par in it.

"Listen, James," Colonel Klink says, and his voice is the voice of a friend now, that same tone that came when he burned Sawyer's hand. Sawyer can feel himself tense at it, but Colonel Klink shakes his head at him as if telling him not to worry. "We had to get you healed. We want you well. If you are not well, then you are of no use to us, and if you are of no use to us, then you cannot be a good candidate. It was save you or kill you, and we decided on the former. Don't disappoint us, all right? We want what's best for you."

There's something soothing in those words, something that reassures him. At least they're going to make him healthy. Then, when he is healthy, he can go to town on them, kick some ass, get out of the place. The possibility makes his adrenaline rush, makes angels sing in his head, although that could be all the alcohol as well.

"Don't you _want_ to be better?" The question encourages him to say yes, and he nods slowly. Colonel Klink smiles, continuing, his voice deliberate. "We will make you better. We will remove all that guilt that we know you're feeling, and we will replace it with better things. We will make you function. You want to function, don't you? You want to live the life you were supposed to lead."

Once again, Sawyer nods. He's always wanted to live that way. There's no point in denying it to himself. He always thought he could be more than just some con man, always knew he had that potential. Nobody ever saw it in him, though, not even the woman whose name is on a strip of metal - a misspelled strip of metal, he suddenly remembers – in his pocket. They're seeing it, though. They can see him for who he is. They accept it, and they offer improvement, and it's so easy to just say yes. Whatever they will do thereafter doesn't matter, because he has that acceptance, and that's enough to last him through anything. Someone understands him, even if they're a collection of freakshows in some military plant.

"Of course you want to be better. Unlike us, you stand the chance." The redheaded man takes another step closer, and then his voice turns less confiding, more brusque and businesslike. "I tell you this now because we want no resistance. You are being taken to have an MRI. Do you know what that is?" Sawyer nods. "Good. Then you know it won't hurt. It's just magnets." Colonel Klink tosses a set of earplugs to Sawyer, and despite the burn on his hand, Sawyer instinctively moves to catch them. This earns him an approving nod. "Put those on. And take that damn dog-tag out of your pocket."

He feigns surprise. "What dog-tag?"

"The one you have taken. It was on the table, and you lifted it, just like you lifted it from the corpse. Why are you so curious about those things?"

He can't tell them, _Because I see them in hallucinations, and because the name on the one I have changes._ They would never take him seriously. He does, though, despite himself. He's too drunk to think of a good lie, and he figures the other guy probably is too sharp to believe him. This earns him another signal of approval, and he relaxes some at that. He's gotten on their good side now.

He needs to protect himself, though. He needs to make sure he won't get entirely taken in by these guys. He quickly chooses some information to hold back – Jeannie, mainly, since they've decided to remind her of him, and the way his parents' bodies looked, and the look on Debbie's face, the shock, the disgust, when he'd asked her to put him up for a while, the distaste on Mark's face when he, Sawyer, had asked for the money back. They're not pretty images, but his life isn't pretty. They'll have to do. He won't let them take those thoughts; if he starts to feel like he's losing himself, at least he's got something to cling to, even if it's a rather bitter past.

"You see, James, you're learning to listen to what we say. Take that army tag out of your pocket, _now._" The redhead's voice is that of a bootcamp drill sergeant. Sawyer fishes the tag from his pocket, slaps it down on the table with more vehemence than he needs. This brings laughter from Colonel Klink, who moves for the door.

The man's words are hushed, but perhaps louder than he expects. "Ford's ready. Be prepared, though. You might have a bit of a struggle getting him to the room. I think he's compliant, but you never know with him, we're told."

A bass voice answers. Another Yankee. "Right, Kelvin. Whatever you say."

The name is instantly familiar, but Sawyer is more distracted by the apparent escorts to the MRI. They're boxers. Weightlifters. Something. And they mean business. At least he manages to hit the floor before they have to grab him and drag him out of the bed. And, surprising even himself, he offers them no fight as they start walking him from the room.


	39. Poisonous Lookalike

**XXXIX: Poisonous Lookalike**

First light, and they're up and moving again. Sayid does not look forward to another day of trekking through the jungle, of hacking aside plants and trying to find tracks in the leaves. The past two days have brought them nothing, and he is starting to wonder how long they will have to keep walking before they come across something useful, something that tells them where they are. Despite himself, he pulls out a compass, glancing at it, but the needle to the north points to the east, where the sun hangs low in the sky.

That solves things to some degree, though. It has pointed to the south for the past while, and before then, it pointed to the west. They're circling around whatever it is that is attracting the magnet, and that at least clues him in a little. Whatever it is, it must be massive. If they can make two miles an hour in the heavy foliage, and they have walked for thirty hours, then whatever it is surrounds them for twenty miles on each of its sides. It must be massive.

It would need to be big, too, he knows. The walls underneath the hatch were thick enough to contain a blast the size of Chernobyl, but whatever they're slowly tracing around is bigger and, worryingly enough, uncontained. Whatever it is must be monitored by someone, and he's willing to take the chance that the monitors are the same people that took Sawyer. There would not be two groups on this island with the power and resources that this one seems to have. There is an economy in it that he remembers from Tikrit. _The al-Husseins had the power in the city, so they had the power in the rest of the land, too. They controlled the city, the fanatics, the resources._ It all worked out for them, and this island is working in the same way for people, whomever they are, whatever they are here for.

He stows the compass away, continuing to walk, and takes a glance back at the rest of them. They're starting to straggle some. There's some irony there. From what he had heard from Michael and the newcomers, Ana-Lucia had not wanted people to slow down or sidetrack them, but she is not doing the best at keeping pace now. None of them are. They will have to rest again. The last time they made a decided choice to rest, they brought back an Other. Sayid wonders if they'll get the same opportunity now.

They break onto a ridge, which gives them a vantage point and a moment's high ground. His army instincts tell him this is a good place, the best that they have come across in a while. His scientific instincts tell him that if they are on the ridge and if it looks safe, they are unlikely to be lucky enough to come across such an outcropping again.

"We will break for a few moments," he announces, and the others fall out.

He suspects he knows what they are thinking. They are thinking about what they will do once they get out of this place, what they have done before, R&R on the rescue ship or plane or whatever it is, the food that they'll eat, the first thing they'll order at the restaurants they'll go to, soda and television and the internet and even little things like microwaves, car openers, cellular phones, radios that he won't break instead of let them listen to. They are wondering how much more time they have left on the island.

They think about these things to avoid thinking about what matters, he knows. They are trying not to think about what could happen if they are attacked again, and if their attackers don't shoot to miss. They are trying not to think about what has happened to their friends, because they all have lost someone, and who is he to say they did not feel the loss as keenly as he? They are especially trying not to think about how isolated they are, and how they have not yet been rescued. Thoughts like that hurt far more. They cannot fathom what it will be like tomorrow. They cannot plan for those things. They think about yesterday instead, and they delete all of the bad things from their yesterdays so they at least have a little to go on. They lock their minds onto the past, lock themselves down, stay there for as long as they can.

He leans up against the back of a tropical tree and shuts his eyes, falling into dreams without falling asleep. The visions come fast and monochrome. There is too much color around him in the jungle, and the starkness he envisions is a relief.

–––

The Tigris was a silver sliver, and the moonlight made it shine hard and white like a diamond against the black-draped night. He could hear the laughter of two boys that had made their way down to the river to skip stones in the surface, could see the stones hit, cracking the surface like a mallet on that same diamond. The town had been burned, and the people had been smoked out, but these boys had remained, apparently thinking they were on some sort of great adventure amidst the ruins. On the other side of the river, he could see the charred hulk of the Republican Guard barracks, looking skeletal despite its solidity. He felt some satisfaction at that, the structure that had haunted his past and defined his future now gone. He was his own again. He had regained himself, and he would burn the uniform like the Americans had burned the city.

The boys were too young to remember. They had not been born when the Americans had last been in Tikrit. They did not feel any sort of remembrance, or any real hatred towards the Americans. They were too young for that hatred. He watched them for a moment, ghostly figures in the darkness, their laughter ringing like bells in his ears, their chattering warm and welcoming. He hoped they would have a better future than he'd had, but when he was eleven like they, he never would have expected he would turn into what he did.

The boys greeted him, saluted him. He wondered why, and when he looked down at himself, he saw that he was in a Republican Guardsman's uniform. For a moment, the crazy idea came to him – if he wanted to burn the uniform, he could burn it now, light up the wrecked city like a signal fire. A martyr's death. The imams that had taught him as a child would be proud of such an end. He had heard of it before, too; when the Americans last went into a country, across Asia in Vietnam, the Buddhist monks had lit themselves on fire as a means of protest – but he could not remember now, were they protesting the Americans, or their own people, or the Northern Vietnamese? He was not sure which he would be protesting either – the Americans, or his own people, or the aristocrats down in Baghdad?

"_Al salaam a'alaykum, ya Bek._" They greeted him like a soldier, too. "You're looking for Nadia."

They knew her. He felt his pulse race, his eyes widen, but could not think on how to respond for a moment, struck dumb by their sudden inquiry. At length he nodded, though, smiling. "Yes. Nadia. You know where she is?"

One of the boys instantly grinned; the other elbowed his friend, shaking his head. The second boy fought hard to keep a straight face, but it was not convincing. His voice trembled with laughter. "If we knew where she was, what would we get from it?"

"Bribery?" Sayid felt himself grin. "I'd heard of people scavenging after an attack, but never this." He pulled out a twenty-five dinar note, caught sight of Saddam Hussein's portrait on it, thrust it towards them anyway. Then he thought: _What will they buy with the money? The town has been bombed. They cannot spend it on anything, for there is nowhere that they can spend it._ Even as the boys seized upon the note, the one that was quicker to grin flashing him a brilliant smile, he took off his cap and put it on the other boy's head. That had cost him twenty dinars back before the currency had started to devalue. He wondered how much it would cost now. For once, he felt no need to calculate it. "There. Now you are even," he said, and believed it was true. "Where is Nadia?"

The boys grinned, and started to walk. From his right, a rocket hit; a building went up in flames. The boys did not flinch. Neither did he. He followed their wavering forms through the smoke, following what had recently been his guardsman's cap through the gloom. Amidst all the black and white, it was very intensely green, as high as his shoulder atop the boy's head.

The boy with the money turned back towards him. He was still grinning, wider still, and it was an infectious, engaging smile. "Nadia says she has been waiting to see you. She says that she has been waiting for you, _ya Bek_. She left, but she could not bear to go very far. It's good you stayed in Iraq for so long, even when the Americans came. How did you manage it?"

Dream logic failed there. He could provide them no answer, and so he started to wake again.

–––

He awakens with a start. Had he dozed off? He had not intended that. He had meant only to drift off into visions, for a few moments, until they were ready to eat. He had not meant to fall asleep, and he chides himself now for letting himself go like that. _You are lucky you are amongst friends,_ he tells himself, and he knows that he is.

They have cooked something that someone caught, probably Locke, and he is suddenly aware of how hungry he is. He does not question what sort of meat it is, because he is not in a position to wonder. It tastes good, and he devours it hungrily, as do the rest of them. Meals are becoming a luxury on this search.

"You were dreaming," Eko's deep voice breaks the silence at a comfortable break in the meal. "Your eyes were moving. What were you seeing?"

He sets down the meat – bird of some sort, for he has what looks like a wing – down and looks towards Eko. "I was seeing the future, I hope," he replies, surprised at the ease with which this comes out from him. He does not want to see Tikrit burned, does he? He knows he wants to see Nadia, certainly, so he hopes that at least is in his future. He reaches out for a bottled water, taking a long, long sip., long enough that he can hear the instructor at basic army training telling him not to drink so much, because he will make himself sick. Orders like that are meant to be broken in drastic situations, however, and if being stranded on a desert island and trying to lead a rescue mission is not a drastic situation, he does not know what is. "I was merely thinking how nice it would be if I had found what I needed to find in Iraq instead of going to Australia to find it."

_Her, not it,_ a voice says. But he moves past that, smiling at them. They are quiet for a moment, beyond sips of water and bites of food, and he picks up his own food again, taking a bite of it. The meat has been cooked well. He makes a note to ask Locke to cook some more things once they get back to their settlement. From glancing at how quickly the others have consumed their food, he suspects that he might not be the only one thinking this.

"The future – on the island or off of it?" Eko continues.

Sayid blinks. _He is curious about this, for some reason._ His instincts tell him to conceal the matter, so he smiles, simply responds, "Off of the island, of course. I had not planned to stay here. I doubt anyone plans that." As he says that, he sees Locke flinch, winces, and then adds, "But, of course, I could be quite wrong, and if someone wanted to stay, provided the island was made safe, there would be nothing wrong with that." He had not thought that before, but with what he knows about Locke's sudden recovery, he cannot blame the man. He is still suspicious of him, but it nags at him a lot less. "We will make it off the island," he adds, feeling foolish for speech-making but thinking it necessary nonetheless. "We need only use our good sense, and that will give us a means to leave, or end this however else we might see fit."

"And what does your future contain?" Eko asks, and the tone is clearly humoring Sayid, like he is asking a fortune teller to divine the future. "Your past was one of war, if I am not mistaken. You seemed content enough to dream, so I take it that your future does not contain the same?"

He shakes his head at Eko. "No, my future is not war. My future is – searching. Searching, and hopefully finding."

"It would appear that is your present as well," Eko notes in a surprisingly dry voice.

Sayid has to grin at that, and he nods at Eko. "Apparently so. I have as little doubt about our search as I have about my own. What about you?"

Eko considers for a moment, staring at the ground. "It is not my place to doubt, and it does not befit a man of faith to do so."

That is as good an answer as he will get, Sayid suspects. He does not mind it as much as he might, either. He rises, moving to the ridge to take a look down into the seas of greenery, the leaves bubbling like foam. He tries to find a path. There is no path. There is, however, a landmark, a clearing off in the distance, and he figures they should head that way. If nothing else, at the very least they can bunk there for the night if they need to do so. "_Yalla,_" he tells them, and then realizes that they don't speak Arabic. A flash of embarrassment crosses over his face; he catches a smirk from Ana-Lucia, and he corrects himself. "That is – let's go."

And they do.

–––

The old government building was made of finely worked bricks and looked more like a resort villa than anything else. On the side was a small courtyard, and when he was growing up, he was told that was where the British colonials used to sit and tell jokes and drink what his people brought to them.

Tonight, the courtyard, and the government building, were whole, the only fully standing building amidst the ruins. Sayid wondered at that, but as the children led him on, he soon forgot about the strange chance of the building's survival. The courtyard was clean, free of any rubble having been thrown on it, and Sayid saw it as the proverbial oasis. It offered him no water, but it offered him far more. It offered him her, and she was worth more than any drink of water could ever be. He quickened his pace, almost trod on the boys' heels. He could hear her now, saying his name in surprise, joy, glee. He could see her face contort, sharply and severely at first, with the intensity of her excitement to see him, before it settled once more to be beautiful again.

"Little Sayid!" she exclaimed, and he clasped hands with her, and then gave her a hug, the contact startling him, not just because she was a woman and he had allowed himself that liberty, but because of the strength of his own enthusiasm upon seeing her. She gasped a little at it, but she was grinning, and she was hugging him back just as tightly, so he didn't feel bad at the intensity. "You appear to have lost your hat to two thieves."

She indicated the boys, who stood there, looking embarrassed at the embrace between the two. He noticed that one of them had a familiar face, the taller one with the hat. It was Fahd's face, but he was Nadia's age now; he could not be so young. He must be dreaming. But he did not want to wake up.

"A poor soldier you make, Sayid," she joked at his expense, "to give up so easily. What did they threaten you with? Annoyance? Rocks? Pushing you down in the mud?"

He grinned at that last part, shook his head. "They bribed me," he told her, doing his best to make his voice sound aggrieved. "They told me you were here, and you are. You are well. The building is well." He motioned around him, indicating the bricks. There was an explosion and another flash fire, somewhere in the distance, but it did not touch them. He felt that it could not touch them. "I have found you," he pointed out.

She smiled back at him. Her smile was broad; her voice teased him."I told you that you would. You should listen to me, Little Sayid." She extended her hand to him, and he saw a glimpse of her arm slipping free of the black drapes of her clothing. "Let's walk," she suggested, "and leave these children alone. You've been enough trouble to them already."

He had caused more trouble for more children than he knew, and the grief of that hit him, but he did not tell her that. He put his hand in hers and they started to walk. They walked through the bricks and kept going, moving into Tikrit and through the streets, down into the moonlit river, and he did not feel the water at all. Perhaps he was floating. He could not be certain. He felt Nadia let go of his hand, and for a moment, she had never looked so beautiful.

Then her face turned to ice, and her bones protruded through the translucent, cold sheen, and she started to sink beneath the water, dragging him down into it. The water had started out comfortable, but now it was ice cold, and he fought back, splashed at the water, strained to get free, but he could not fight back enough. He saw her arm again, her shirtsleeve, and felt the black cloth wrap around him like a shroud, felt the Tigris swallow them both in her clothing, now a shared funeral garb. He welcomed death, since it was with her.

–––

They break out of the ridge, and he is still dreaming of Nadia. His vision of a destroyed Iraq shocks him, startles him. He does not think that of his country – only of his past. Nadia and the boys, the only things that were real. Fahd, the class spy, transformed into a child who signified hope for Iraq. He could only hope that was true.

Their progress reveals some signs, ones which Locke and Kate quickly point out: Boot tracks, large and deep in the mud. People have been walking heavily here, and he suspects from the stride that these are Americans, not the Others' light footsteps or the tracks his own people would make, quicker and shorter. A tin can rests nearby, which Locke kneels down and picked up. A can of C-rations, half-eaten, for a journey of only a few hours. They are nearer now. They must be nearer. The people would have eaten all of their food if they had planned to be out for the day, did not expect another meal for a while. He can see renewed energy for the journey on the faces of his friends, and this encourages him.

And then they happen upon a particular stroke of luck. He can see it here, a truck, its cab open. It looks military-issue, but it looks still serviceable. There are no cobwebs or stress fractures in the body. It has been driven recently, within the past few days, and he sees tracks leading off into the distance, towards the clearing to which they are headed. He stares at that, blinking, and he can feel the others stop short, too.

"It's a trap," Ana-Lucia speaks up. "They're trying to make us take it. I say we keep walking."

Kate lets out a disgusted sigh at that, rounds on Ana-Lucia. "We've been walking for ages, Ana. What do you expect us to do? How much further can we go?"

"I can go further than you can."

Kate bristles. Sayid sighs, and he can see impatience flickering over Locke's and Eko's faces as well. They are not going to go through this again, are they? He can see things going wrong even now, even when they were given such a stroke of luck, and there is only one way to ensure that everything is safe. He licks his lips, hesitates for a moment, and then speaks up.

"I will check for traps. Ana-Lucia, since I know you want something to do, take your rifle and stand guard. If anyone starts shooting, shoot back. The rest of you wait. Eat something or drink something, while you have the chance." He advances on the truck, flexing his fingers. They need to be dextrous, to feel for any sorts of trip-wires or explosives, and they are. It takes him a good twenty minutes to check the truck, but it is devoid of any threat, as he reports to them at the end, turning to face them and unable to restrain the happiness from his voice. "We are safe in the truck," he announces, and from the looks on their faces, he knows that they trust him where that is concerned. He is not sure if he is more pleased at the truck, or at the way he defused the argument about to explode. He suspects it was about even.

"Wow. Do we, uh…" Kate can't find the words for what she wants to say, clearly. She waves a hand towards the truck vaguely. "Are we taking that?"

"What do you think, Princess?" Ana-Lucia tells her, but the surprise is too pleasant for her to sound as sharp to Kate as she otherwise might.

Kate's eyes turn cold for a moment, but she seems to think better of it. She shrugs at Ana-Lucia. "I say we take it. How do we know if it runs, though?" Sayid knows that's his cue anyway, but from the significant glance that she gives him, he would have been a fool to expect otherwise. "Sayid, if you don't mind…"

Of course he doesn't mind. He shakes his head in the negative and lets out a little laugh. He's too shocked to make it sound any firmer. He stares at the car, trying to take stock of it. It looks old, but he suspects that it's drivable. He swings himself into the driver's seat and familiarizes himself with the controls. Even before he takes hold of the gears, he knows he can work it, and as the engine roars to life, he feels a thrill run through him. They will go, and they will follow the tracks, and they are so close, now, that he has to fight hard to keep a straight face and is entirely unsuccessful. He does not look at the gas gauges, because they do not matter. He will drive as far as it will go, and then will leave it when it runs out of fuel. They will be closer now than they ever have been, and this will help them get here. If it was drivable in here, surely it must be drivable out of here.

He hits the brake as he shifts the truck into drive. The gears are loose – everything is loose; the truck is surprisingly old – but it will work. The engine sounds fine, not knocking or pinging, and the hum is music to his ears. The road ahead will be rough, but they will be driving, and the few centimeters of play in the clutch and brake do not disturb him. He is not in a position to be choosy about what he is driving. Still braked, he waves an arm through the open window, motioning them to join. "Check the truck while you're riding," he tells them. "Search it for anything we can use."

Ana-Lucia's voice comes to him, and for once, it does not sound angry. "Use for what?"

"I am uncertain," Sayid calls back through the open cab window towards her. "But whatever we can prepare, we must. We will be there sooner than expected." _Sooner than who expects us, precisely?_ His hands tighten on the steering wheel for a moment before deciding that that question will be answered when they get to where they are going.

He feels the truck bed settle, everyone on, and then his hands turn on the wheel, hand-over-hand to ease the truck onto the tracks that it has recently created. There can be no road mines ahead. They would not have left the truck here only to see them die. They want them wherever they are supposed to go, wherever the track leads, and they have gone too far down that road to turn back. He is sure of that.

For a moment, as he glances in the rearview mirror, he is almost certain he sees Nadia's face in the back, amongst the others, and he knows that he is doing the right thing. He has dreamed her out of existence for at least a little while, and now he has only focus for the task ahead.


	40. Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead

**XL: Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead**

Highway 150 drifted past Lake Norman, turning onto Highway 16. _15, 16,_ Sawyer thought. _It almost fits that way._ He prayed that the beater would make it a little further, and pressed his foot on the gas as steadily as he could. He didn't know quite where he was going, but he'd been told there was a little resort town on the western side of Lake Norman that he would find Hibbs staying at. As he drove into the hills, noticing that they were starting to stack higher and higher, he checked his gun to make sure. He had bullets. He was ready. He hoped Hibbs would be willing to talk. He didn't have to want to use the gun, but all the same, he had to be prepared. Like Hibbs said, he was smart. He wanted to make the man realize how right that was.

He needed a new car. He had the money for it, left over from the con job from which he'd fled. He was down to his last hundreds by now, but he wasn't in trouble. Not yet. He could live on only a little bit of cash. There were always marks around. There was always an opportunity to make more from the idiots that were all over the world. He was sure of that.

He shut his eyes, cruising along, his car sailing into the clouds, feeling like he would drop off the edge of the world. Maybe he could. Nobody would miss him. On the radio, some warbling country star started up a new song. Most times, he would have listened, and maybe even would've liked the song. He wasn't in the mood for it now, though, and he opened his eyes, reaching to shut off the radio, continued coasting along.

_Maybe I could keep driving. Hit California and keep going, float across the ocean to Japan and China, go somewhere where nobody can tell what I say. I live by my talk, but, Christ, it gets tiring sometimes._ He squinted out the windshield, staring ahead. He didn't see the patchwork quilt of colors in the trees. He had eyes only for the town that was supposed to be up ahead. Hibbs was there. He was sure of that. He had been let down too many times, and he had circled back from Georgia, Florida, back through North Carolina. He was almost home now. Only a few hours 'til Knoxville. He wanted to have something to show for it, and if that was blood on his hands, oh well. Too bad.

When he crossed the county line from Catawba into Lincoln, he decided to take a break. He needed a smoke. He needed to walk. He needed to think. He parked the car and took the gun with him. It was hunting season. Nobody would ask any questions. No one would care. He checked it again, knowing even as he ran his hands over the gun, checking it closely, that he was panicking. _God, boy, why are you so nervous?_ an inner voice asked him. _Hibbs ain't nothing. Not even. You don't need to worry._

He was worried, though, and he choked that down, slid the clip back into the pistol. His hands trembled slightly, and he shook his head at that, tried to will them to stop. Every time he'd had to fire that damn thing in the past, he'd gotten consumed by nerves, and he hated that. He could never understand why. He didn't care about other people – so why should he care about killing them? He was weak, a coward, a fuck-up, a lousy con man. Nobody would hire him for jobs anymore, once word got out that he had fled Tampa without getting the deal made. He wasn't sure he blamed them, either. His hands shook even worse now, and he clenched them shut, put the safety on, dropped the gun back into the car through the open window.

Now, for a cigarette. At least that made his hands shake less. He set fire to the smoke, taking a long drag on it. He hoped it would calm him down, and as he squinted towards the sign that declared, 'WELCOME TO LINCOLN COUNTY: WEST LAKE NORMAN REGION,' he knew there was no turning back. The small town of Denver, North Carolina, lay ahead, and Hibbs was sure to be there.

On the drive in to Denver, through the rising hills, he had passed an 'Energy Explorium,' a llama farm, a farm of even stranger animals that he figured were probably alpacas since he had no idea what they looked like, and the rather ominously titled 'Carolina Raptor Center,' which had brought _Jurassic Park_ flooding back into his memories. He figured Denver would be similarly quirky, and was disappointed to find that it was not. The town was _small_, he saw. It was not as small as the place where he had first met Hibbs, but it looked enough alike that a little wave of déjà vu ran over him as he pulled in from the northwest, coming on the road that had brought him circling around Lake Norman counterclockwise.

A lot of the homes in the farm country that surrounded the town had once been plantations, but now most of them were run-down. Inevitable ramshackle barns with inevitable farming implements stood behind inevitable cars on cement blocks, and the houses looked no better, their chipping, fading paint giving them the feel of a Southern ghost story.

The post office was basically all there was to the center of town. He could see a bunch of camp revival tents out past one end of town – an amazing amount, really – but there wasn't enough traffic in town for him to think the revivalists were still there. That was good, though. It was better that they weren't there. He didn't want to run into them, and he was damn sure that they didn't want to run into him.

He lit a second cigarette off the first as he drove his car through the town. It was a Saturday, but despite that, there wasn't much traffic. In a way, that was good, because nobody would notice him. In a way, that was bad, too, because when he sought Hibbs out, if something bad happened, people would notice. He had to isolate the guy, get him outside of the area, make sure that he wasn't seen. He had to plan ahead. He hated planning. He was better at acting. Wasn't he?

_No, you aren't,_ that same voice continued. _You can't even fire a damn gun without just about losing your lunch._

He jerked the wheel harder than he needed to turn the car onto a side street, trying to ignore the voice as he pulled into an empty parking lot to sit for a moment. It sickened him, though, and he sat there in the car, stared up at the sign of the gas station on the side street, tried to swallow his stomach. What he was about to do – the idea that he could really kill Hibbs, just for screwing him over on a job – turned his stomach. He would do it, though. He had no choice. He had gotten himself into this mess by trusting the guy, and it had taken more from him than he had wanted – Jeannie, his money, his one chance so far at something like a comfortable life. The only way to get it back was to give Hibbs what he deserved.

Why, then, was he shaking too badly to drive? He knew the answer, but he did not want to think about it. He shoved the key into the ignition again and sat there for a moment, feeling the car hum to life. Around him, Denver seemed cheerful and fake, a Mayberry that was about to know murder.

_No,_ he told himself, hearing a note of seven-year-old resolve. He saw his parents' bodies in flashes, visions that he knew hadn't gone away through the years, because he saw those same images each night. _No,_ he repeated to himself, his breath and his fingers going from shaky to trembling, lessening some. _Hibbs isn't your real target._ He couldn't do it, he decided as he sat there staring at the gas station, the sign wavering in his vision and going double. Not Hibbs. Hibbs didn't deserve to be killed like this. He didn't have the stomach for it anyway, but if he _had_ had the stomach for it, there was only one guy who deserved death, the guy that had brought about his parents' death. He would save the gun, and the bullets now within it, for him.

There were better things to do here, anyway. It was fall, and there were plenty of tourists around. Lots of young ones, too, and rich, Charlotte businessmen going boating for the weekend with their gorgeous, frustrated trophy wives. He saw an opportunity for a con here. There was an opportunity for that everywhere. He would get some more money, and he would go back to Knoxville richer in cash, if not in anything else.

An opportunity was always there. This was proof of it. He had been brought here because of the chance for a con, and he would make good on that. He pulled into the gas station, checking the mileage - 41,516 – and then got out of the car. He pulled out his cellphone to check it. Jeannie had called. He pressed the number to hear his voicemail, and had to fight not to lose his nerve at what he heard.

"– I _know_. I'm sorry! What more do you want me to say? Yeah, James is gone. No, _no_, I don't know why. If I knew, I would tell you. I don't know where he is, Kelvin. Honest, I don't. You don't need to go searchin' all over the Bible Belt for him, though. He's done with. He isn't worth it."

An unfamiliar voice, then. Not Hibbs', but it was Northern enough anyway. "You know damn well that he is. You _know_ this. You know why we recruited you. We wanted you to keep an eye on him. He was your assigned candidate, and you lost him."

Jeannie's voice rose, panicked. "It's not my fault his partner decided to drop the fiddle game they were running! It's not like we told him to, either."

"No. But it's your fault you were screwing both of them, is – shit, is that thing on?"

_Click._

He moved mechanically for the gas, putting it in the car, barely noticing when he slumped against the car, faint and dizzy. Someone yelled at him, bringing him back to his senses with a nauseous shift. Jolted back to reality, he stepped back, smiled at the guy that had yelled at him, feeling how fake the smile was. It was his con man grin. "I'm all right," he told the guy, and for a split second, he even believed that was true.

They wouldn't find him. He was days away from Tampa, and he had only opportunity ahead of him. Denver, North Carolina, was good as any other place to start living on the lam as a proper con artist. He would never be at home anywhere, now, but it was fine. It wasn't like he had a choice in the matter, either. He would keep one step ahead of them, just like he had kept one step ahead of the law, and he would only use his gun to kill Frank Sawyer. He promised himself that, and when he made promises to himself, he stuck to them. He could not say the same for promises to anyone else, but it seemed like everyone else had always lied to him, anyway.


	41. Transverse City

**XLI: Transverse City**

Years ago, in medical school, he had written the words that he pronounces now, and he feels a certain strange satisfaction in repeating them. " 'With the right education, belief in progress is not a problem for anyone,' " Marvin Candle tells his breakfast companion, handing the coffee pot over. "Disloyalty is simply ignorance. Remember that."

Just like the last time, when he had given the lecture, his words have not been understood, and it is all he can do not to force out a censure at that. He has chosen well, but occasionally the thickheadedness he has to encounter irritates him. This has not been the case with the first recruits, the rich wastrels that he had long ago picked up throughout the world – New York, London, Riyadh – but it is the case here. He does not understand why. His choice of help now is no different.

He settles back in the armchair, pausing sharply, his hands resting lightly on his lap. He glances towards his informant, smiling thinly. "Tell me, does the island seem fulfilling? Are you happy with your life here?"

There is a pause at that. He knows it is a telling pause. His subordinate hesitates, looks nervous, covers it up with a smile. "Of course. I mean," throat-clearing commences, "it's all right. But I just – "

He is not in the mood to be lectured by someone who does not understand the project. He cuts the informant off, shaking his head. His features barely move, not particularly cracking the cast of expression in which he has set them. "We have arranged every detail of the project. We have created this painstakingly. We have scaled work to the individual capacities of the people that we have chosen. We have studied them; we have analyzed them; we have been watching them for fifteen years now. You cannot say that we have not been preparing for this."

"I know you have. I just wanted to say that I don't think…"

"Exactly." Candle taps his hands against one another. "Haven't we done what we could for you before?" A nod. "And haven't we always lived up to our promises? Your life changed for the better, didn't it?" Another nod, more hesitant this time. Candle decides that it will not be expedient to inform his informant of all the details, and that turn of phrase amuses him. He almost smiles. Not quite. But he comes closer than he has for a long while. "We cannot stop this now. It has already started. We were lucky enough to purchase the military base and convert it, and we could not allow that to go to waste."

He takes a bite of the omelet, and notices that one of the other omelets, his subordinate's, has barely been touched, although the third is being eaten quite rapidly by the Irishman. The uneaten omelet concerns him. How much has been happening at the camps? He has watched enough footage to know that their subjects are not behaving properly. The father has not left the camp as they have expected to, and he figures there is some scientific term for that. There is some scientific cause, too; he knows it is the psychologist's fault. That was a risk, to include that sort of person in the midst of their research group, but they have placed her there with the subjects for her reports. Those reports have not come. He is not a research scientist, but, really, none of them are; he is the closest. He will come up with the terminology for it when it comes time to present his findings to the Esfandiary Group at Dharma. "You must eat. You'll waste away to nothing."

A scoffing sound. "Right." A few bites of the omelet, then, but they are not relished. That is surprising. "We've got none of this sort of stuff there, you know."

"Which has its benefits."

That brings a snort. "Yeah, right. Do you know how much I miss omelets?"

He can guess. He does not see any reason to inform the subordinate of his guess. There is no reason to start an argument and alienate the one person within the camp that has been reliable. Instead, he finishes his own omelet, picks his napkin from his lap, dabs at his mouth before setting the napkin down on the table. Everything must be correct, and it is.

"We thank you for the money you have provided us to create this." _and for which we have rewarded you by damning your life so much that even if you wanted to stop helping us, you wouldn't,_ "and for your assistance in our efforts." He has recited this a few times, and he knows it sounds recited, but he feels the need to reassure his compatriot of that. "You made a wise choice coming to us with your money, and that choice is being rewarded. You have friends in the camp. They all like you. You have done an admirable job ingratiating yourself. See to it that you are not losing focus." There is a long pause. Candle tilts his head at the other. His acquaintance meets his gaze, and that pleases him. "You know what the Initiative is for. You attended the lectures, even if you slept through them. You know what will come of it. You agreed to help us even though we cannot help you. For that, we are grateful."

The subordinate nods, smiling at the compliment. He probably had not heard the rest of it, Candle figures. "Hey, listen, so, Libby: She says she knows you." Long hair tilts. Curiosity. "How?"

Candle pauses. His hands steeple. "We worked together."

The obvious question follows. He has expected it. "Is she working for you now?"

Despite his expectation, he is momentarily uncertain of how to answer that, but pauses just long enough to wonder before looking like he's uncertain. "No more than you are," he says, and it is the truth. He need not tell the young man about how his psychologist was made of psychological whole cloth, orchestrated to meet him and then to encounter him again on the island. The young man already knows how the supposed crash was orchestrated, knows now that the numbers were given him by a plant, and that is fine. That is all that the fellow should know. Candle himself certainly does not need to tell him about how the woman has taken a different course. Instead, he pauses a moment, smiling blandly. "You said you had something for me?"

The young man nods. His smile broadens. He reaches into his knapsack, extracting a book, and hands it over without comment.

"Ah, yes. I remember this. We put it there in hopes that they would find it and take the advice. Libby should recognize it too. But you said she gave it to you? More evidence for her disloyalty. Her ignorance, like I said before." Candle flips open a few pages. "I don't remember this inscription." He hands the book to his other side, to the Irishman sitting there. "Did you write it, Desmond?"

The Irishman stares at the page and nods, slowly, sitting up from eating his omelet to glance at the manual. " 'My friend, may God not weaken your hand,' " he translates, before supplying weakly, "It's a proverb. A sayin'; that's all."

"We are searching for ways to _strengthen_ people, and you can only talk about weakening. You will not progress with that sort of recalcitrant attitude, but they will. As we speak, we have begun the process with Mr. Ford."

He thinks that Reyes flinches at that. A note of sympathy, perhaps. He wonders at that. He will address it with the young man in private, however, rather than spare him the embarrassment of being called out in company. The _nouveau riche_ has given them a lot of money, too much to publicly insult him, but they have provided for him: They have promised him salvation from all the incidents of his past, events which they had orchestrated to get the young millionaire into their fold.

He continues: "Once he is uploaded, we will be able to effectively determine whether he is a success. Even if he is not, he has nothing to live for anyway. So he will not be much of a sacrifice to the goals for which we have strived on this island."

The two others watch him. A silent moment passes, as the gravity of Ford's situation hits them. He allows them that much of a pause. The obese young man shrinks away slightly; Desmond instead looks quite interested in the particulars.

"And as for the rescue party, well – they have picked up the truck. It seems neither bullets nor maser projections stopped them, but it would appear the people we chose are quite obstinate. In any case, they are heading right for us. It appears that we will recoup our losses, including Ford if necessary, and that we will do so very soon indeed. Eat your omelet, Hugo. You don't want to starve."

The young man straightens his spine and squares his shoulders at that, as if Candle has said something to offend him. He takes another bite of the omelet, but he clearly is not yet enjoying it. All the same, his words are suitably emphatic. "Dude, if I was starving, I'd buy our way off the island. All of us. Even you."


	42. Join Me in LA

**XLII: Join Me in L.A.**

There was a girl singing for spare change. He recognized the song. _Siúl, siúl, siúl._ Walk, walk, walk. And he did, although Los Angeles was the last place that he wanted to do it. It startled him to hear the language this far away, but it could only be expected. The way all these coincidences turned out, far too neat, always so neat, he would have thought that the girl had been planted to distract him. There was something that set her singing apart. She was not the usual street performer with a violin case and a few sour notes, or college kids busking for spare change on the public transport. He'd seen those here, too, though the general street performer was less frequent here than in Dublin. The people here seemed to think they were entitled to the change.

He did not wonder why, because he gave them the money. They figured him for an easy take, and he knew he was, and he gave them money every time. He might have given some to the girl, too, but the girl's singing disturbed him. There was something desperate in it, like she was wrenching it from some hidden place not even she wanted to find. He shuddered at it and moved on.

He was supposed to meet them. He was supposed to report to them. He was supposed to tell them that the doctor had been convinced to join them, that he had been made into their eyes on the plane, but he could not possibly do that. The last meeting had gone badly. He'd let a few things slip, he was sure, but he had fled their meeting at a bar after only an hour. He'd even abandoned his drink, he remembered, so he knew that it must not have gone well. He would have to tell them that. He would have to report that he had failed. He would not get the money for his race now, and that saddened him.

It was all that damned doctor's fault. If only he hadn't yelled, lost control – Desmond remembered that; he could see the man's angry face, though he wasn't sure what he had said to make the fellow look that way – then maybe Desmond could have explained things to him. _Maybe_ the doctor would have understood. _Maybe_ he could have been convinced. He had yelled, though, and he hadn't wanted to hear it, and Desmond saw no reason to disillusion him, then. He would just go with the others, and maybe in time, he could be convinced. Perhaps the doctor's father would speak to him, would make him see.

That was something for which he could only hope.

Los Angeles was hot and crowded, and he did not like it. Boston had felt like home, but this was alien, strange, uncertain territory. He would have to get used to the unknown if he was to travel around the world, but that he could not do at the moment. He had to locate his employers and talk with them. He hoped that they would understand. It occurred to him then that, if they did not understand, he might be in trouble. He wished he had a gun. Or maybe one of those protein shakes.

–––

"The Institute will not be pleased."

"Yes, I know. But I could not – "

"You know for what reason we are doing this, don't you? Surely you too sat through orientation. Please recite to me the goals of the Institute."

" 'The Institute seeks to broaden the parameters of humanity by conducting the noblest of experiments in the name of progress. We seek a transhumanist initiative where there is only chaos, disorder, and barbarism. We seek to build a more enlightened society, one individual at a time.' " He could have told the other man that by heart.

"Very good. Then why do you not seek to help us do precisely that? You were supposed to recruit Mr. Shephard, not let him get drunk on your dollar. Our dollar, really."

"I tried."

"Clearly, not hard enough."

"He will not join. What am I supposed to do, put a damned gun to his head?"

No answer. Perhaps that really _had_ been an option. Instead: "Did you tell him anything?"

"No," Desmond replied, and for a moment, he even thought that was the truth.

–––

It was dark enough so that the cars on the freeway grew into little pinpoints of headlights and tail lamps and slid into one another soundlessly. He stood watching them for a long moment before turning away. He had failed. They had made that quite clear. The woman, Elizabeth or Libby or Beth, had looked disappointed and had given Candle specific advice on him. He wondered what that advice was and was quite surprised when Candle announced that the Dharma Initiative still wanted to fund his race around the world.

He was starving. He would have to get something to eat. He took a long, deep breath, turned around, and started for the strip mall just on the edge of the freeway. A chicken-headed fast food restaurant was there, and that seemed as good a place as any to eat. 'Mr. Cluck's,' the sign proclaimed, and it had the look of a local chain. Surely it would not be fine dining, but it was as good of a meal as any. Besides, he had to get fed before he could continue doing what they needed him to do.

_Find us another,_ his boss had said. _If you cannot turn a doctor, then do not work so hard. Find us some people who are easy to take, and that will be fine. We will have a use for them._ He was not supposed to recruit them yet, but only study them, and he was too starving at the moment to concentrate. There had to be something to eat here, even if it was of questionable quality.

He pulled open the door to the restaurant and scanned the counter. Two boys were working there, a larger young man and a smaller. He wanted something to eat, and they were both attentive, but the larger one appeared quite eager to fill his order – and quite hurried, as well, to hide the few French fries which he had been sneaking on the job. Desmond motioned the young man to finish eating. The boy looked surprised at first before popping those French fries into his mouth, telling him, "Thanks, dude. I totally thought you were going to get me busted."

"I wouldn't do that. I'm not in that line of work." He only noticed after a few moments that the young man was staring at him. Had he said something strange? "A salad, please. McDonald's has them, so I figure you do as well."

"Yeah, well, we're not McDonald's. What do you want, man?" The young man's hand shot towards the menus above, as if to identify them for Desmond's benefit. "Healthiest thing on there is probably the chicken nugget four-piece."

"I'll take that, then," Desmond said. It only occurred to him within the next moment or two that it was strange that he should take health advice from a young man who was so clearly unhealthy. That did not bother him as much as he had thought it might have, however. Everything had gone so strangely today that he could scarcely be shocked anymore.


	43. Hit Somebody!

**XLIII: Hit Somebody!**

As Sawyer walks down the hallway, he's already sizing them up. Two guys, both big, but both slow-looking. Given half a chance, he can get the drop on them. He knows it. If only his head would clear for three seconds, he could at least try to deck them and take off. If he's going to make his move, he's got to make it now. He'd like to be less drunk, and it occurs to him that maybe drinking all those bottles of beer wasn't the best idea, but he has to work with what he's got.

First, though, he has to wait his moment. Unfortunately, that means that his two bodyguards want to chat with him. Why they can't just kill him and get it over with, he doesn't know, but for some reason they feel like talking.

The bigger of the two guys turns towards him, smirking. It's not a nice look. The voice is pleasant, but it's a fake pleasantness, and that somehow makes it worse. "Don't you want to help the cause? I mean, you're contributing now."

_I never wanted to contribute anything._ Sawyer doesn't say that, though, because, first, it's a lie, and secondly, he doesn't want to get into an argument with these guys. They look like they wouldn't like being baited, and for once, he knows enough to keep his mouth shut. Well, not really. The truth of _that_ is that he can't figure out a smart thing to say, what with all the booze he's got in him.

"Do you know what we do with the MRI machines?"

No, but he sure wants to know. He shrugs, to give the impression he doesn't care. If they think they're feeding him information, they're less likely to run off at the mouth. His brain sings drinking songs, soused and doused in drink.

"We use them to copy the atoms in your brain. Hydrogen emits radio waves when it's exposed to a magnetic field. And we've got a huge magnetic field right through those bolted doors up there, you see?" He does, fuzzily. He doesn't answer, though. Let them talk. Let them give him information. He wouldn't know what to say if he could find the words. "MRI outside uses one millimeter resolution. We have that to the tenth power."

_Shit, it's high school algebra,_ Sawyer thinks.

"And if that doesn't work," the first guy continues, sounding like he'd relish that occurrence, "we solidify the brain with paraffin, cut it into thin slices, and scan that into a computer using an electron microscope. Of course, you won't be around for that, but that's all right. We can bring you back to life. We simply upload this into another body, and presto-change-o, you wake up in a new body, with new abilities. We've had a few mistakes, but they don't harm anyone, and we've perfected the process now, we think. You folks were selected for it and brought here, and lucky you; it's your turn. You said you wanted to be given a new chance. Here it is."

He doesn't know what half of that procedure the guy's talking about is, but he knows it doesn't sound good. Anything that involves cutting up brains can't be good. And killing him, copying him, and thinking he'll wake up? They're insane. They must be. A chill runs down his spine, and he finally starts talking. His head hurts, and he's fuzzy, but at least he's found his voice again. "Shove _Blade Runner_ up your ass, Hawking. I'm not a damn replicant." His voice sounds brittle, and sharper and more fragile than he'd intended, but at least he can talk.

One of the guys has seen the movies. He smiles in acknowledgment. "That's what the replicants thought too."

Sawyer keeps on making a concerted effort to snap right back at them. He's not going to let them have an easy walk if he can help it. They don't deserve that. "Ain't that nice, Roger Ebert. We gonna talk movies or are we going to Room 101 already?"

Roger Ebert and Stephen Hawking don't get the reference, and they don't like their new nicknames. He's pleased with them, though. At least that's something. At least they have identities now. If they have identities, he can figure them out. If he can figure them out, he can get loose. He can't plan, though. He's too smashed, and unsteady, and he knows he doesn't have the time. He'll have to take action sooner rather than later, because as they pass the door that Hawking had indicated was where the magnets were and turn onto another different hall, he sees glass and – _Christ_ – sunlight.

He's fought off bouncers at bars before who were bigger than him, too. This is no different, except there are two of them. If he knew anything about calculating angles and odds, he could figure out the probability and the physics of it, but the hell with that. Leave that sort of thing to the guys with brains. He's got to act, and he's got to do it now. He waits and watches, tensing his good arm, testing it, letting it loosen. He does this three times. Maybe it's good luck. His left arm, bandaged, won't be much use, but he can put everything he has behind the punch. He's sure of it. It'll hurt like a bitch, but he's used to stuff like that.

_If only I could outfight them both square and fair,_ he thinks, and then he gets an idea. Maybe the best he's gotten yet. He may not be able to get the better of them if he squares off against them, but there's nothing saying he has to make it even. He may be smashed, but he can use that to his advantage. The idea has a drunken genius about it, and it's almost simple enough to be tricky.

His head swims again, and the walls white out before him; he forces himself to go limp and just _drop_. He hits the floor harder than he had expected. Maybe it's due to the drink, but it's not that bad of a miscalculation. He just lies there gasping for a moment longer, doesn't move until they get closer.

And that works nicely.

The two guys crowd around him, and he knows they've got orders not to hurt him, because they move towards him gingerly, afraid that he'll lash out and they'll have to do something they want to do but aren't allowed to do; he can see that through half-shut eyes, watch as they reach out to haul him up bodily.

Sawyer comes at them with both fists, letting the alcohol rush to his head and fuel him, just like it would in any knock-down-drag-out in some sketchy bar. It doesn't hurt, although that's probably the drink talking. Everything is bright and glittery around him, and whether he's screwed up his head in the fall, or from the drink, or if his eyes have gone all-over bad, or if it's just the lighting that sucks, he doesn't know and doesn't care. He unleashes on them with everything he's got, cuts his knuckles on their teeth, bruises his hands as they drive against bone, and keeps on going.

Ebert and Hawking are stunned and, after a few moments, they're also still and unmoving. Sawyer's breathing erratically now; he can hear it, short gasps that make him sound like he's sobbing. He hits them harder for making him make that sound, the bastards. Whatever brought that from him is a sound he's only made twice before, first when his parents died and second when he killed Duckett in Australia, and, Jesus, he hates the noise. It's absolutely pathetic. It's a noise he'd hoped never to make again, but he's making it now, and all he can do is beat on the guys harder. When his fists miss, he makes a frustrated noise and kicks at them too, feeling ribs shatter. He should go for their heads, finish them off, but he doesn't. He can't do it. And he doesn't have the time or the luxury.

He's being watched. He knows he's being watched. He doesn't care, because he has to act now, and he does.

_Sunlight,_ he thinks, and he heads for it as best he can, spending a dazed few moments tottering that way, getting a precious few moments of staring outside into the welcoming daylight. He can hear footsteps, though, and there's no way that he's getting out there before they get to him. He has to go somewhere. Quick. Move it.

He doesn't glance left or right. He knows they're close. He doesn't need to know how close. There is a door nearby, a broom closet or something probably, and he half-dives for it, half-drags himself in. His hands are cut and bleeding and he's sure the wound on his shoulder is messed up again, but he doesn't know how badly. He doesn't feel any pain yet, thanks to the booze and the adrenaline and the chemical cocktail of painkillers he was given.

How long? How long does he have? How long can he wait there like a mouse in the wall before he's found out, dragged out, wrung out, played out, gone out? He strains to get his breathing back under control and, for God's sake, to stop making that noise. He swallows it down, choking on it, wants to spit it out, but has nothing to spit out.

_The least they could have done is deck me a few times,_ he thinks, feeling badly about it. If he was going to get the better of the guys, the least they could have done was not been taken by surprise so easily. Maybe it's fair play, though. He was taken easily, so he gets out easily. All he has to do is wait here, watching the sliver of light beneath the closet door, regain his breath, and then he can flee. They won't find him. They can't watch all their cameras all the time. He almost laughs hysterically with the promise of it, clamping down on the sound at the last moment. The hysteria runs through his body, though, and he shivers from it. It's not as good a feeling as he had expected.

Sawyer waits, hears voices, footsteps, pandemonium outside. He sees them all pass, hears their steps like thunder outside, a stampede of the bulls, except they're the chasers, not the chased. He shuts his eyes, not trusting his eyesight, only his hearing, and he tries to tune in, tries to listen to them, tries to get a handle on things as best he can. The footsteps start to recede.

_He hid under the bed, seven, watched the same footsteps as they approached the bed, saw them there as they moved towards him, expected he'd be dragged out to be shot too, but he wasn't, he was safe, but then things got worse, because there was his dad, and his footsteps were turning, and he could feel the bed above him creak as his dad sat down, and his gasping grew louder, harsher, but his dad didn't notice because fathers don't notice when their sons act like that, he had learned, and then he heard the shot, felt it shake the bed, saw his father's hand drop and the gun clatter, and the silence was more deafening than the shot, and it felt like his world had exploded, and the softness of the bed above felt like spikes pressing into him, and the world went sharp and jagged from that day forward…_

The door swings open, bathing him in light, but it's not the sunlight, it's the harsh glare of the outside, and he groans inwardly but springs to his feet, bumping into some random junk in his former hiding place. He sees the gun first and the face within a foot of him. "What the hell?" The new guy's voice is shaking, surprised. Sawyer knows he's got a chance.

He strikes out with his good hand, gets control quickly, shoves the guy into the far wall, watches him slide down, stunned but not dead, he thinks, and he moves to go for the guy's gun. _If I have a gun, I can fire it this time. I _know_ I can,_ he thinks, and he reaches for it, but he's too drunk to stay as steady as he should, and fate is a bitch.

He slips onto the ground for only a moment and thinks, _Get up, get up,_ and he starts to, even seizing the gun, but the footsteps are nearer and he is panicking and his fingers fumble on the firearm.

"Oh, for God's sake. Shoot him!"

A bullet grazes his ankle, rushes past him, impacts on the door frame nearby, splintering wood and pinging on metal, and the burning in his ankle matches the burning in his shoulder now, and at least the pain wars with the drunkenness, takes some of it away, replaces it with a coldness, a determination.

He has to get out of here. He needs to get out of here. _He will get out of here._ He has to get into that sunlight that he's seen, and no sick joke of a science experiment is going to stop him. He reaches for the gun again, straining, grunting with the effort, and he turns it on his pursuers, and his finger moves for the trigger, shaking again.


	44. Johnny Strikes Up the Band

**XLIV: Johnny Strikes Up the Band**

They follow the truck's previous tracks through the forest, and despite the age of the vehicle, which Sayid figures is at least as old as he, it runs well and they stand to make good time. The truck has come from somewhere, and he takes a spare moment as he hits a straight stretch of trackway to take out his compass and set it next to him on the seat, his eyes on which way the needle twists. The magnets seem to lie in the exact direction he's headed, for the needle stays straight ahead.

He tries to keep a constant speed, but what with the curves and inclines in the road, it's a harder thing to do than he had anticipated. He keeps one eye on the compass, one eye on the road, and heads through the jungle as smoothly as he can. There are no shouts that anyone has fallen off, which he of course takes as a good sign.

_Wait. What was that?_ He brakes as smoothly as he can, tapping on the brake a few times as the truck grinds to a halt, puts it into park. He stares at it for a moment, and then leans out of the window, turning around to talk with the others in the back. "Do you see it?" And he waves his hand towards the body.

They do. He can tell, because they don't answer him at first. Ana-Lucia tosses back a quick, "Yeah. Christ. Think that's S – "

"No," Kate cuts off Ana-Lucia. "No, it's not Sawyer. It's too small, and can you picture Sawyer with that gun?"

The word 'gun' makes Sayid glance that way, too. He spots the Thompson gun, stares at it. It matches the truck in age. These things are as old as the records in the hatch. Everything is from the Seventies. He wonders about this. Surely they haven't gone back in time. That is an impossibility. Why, then, do half of the belongings they've found stem from that time period? He shakes his head, switches gears to drive, and continues to do so.

He hears chatter from the back, surely discussion of the body, but does not want to know what they're saying. They've come this far, and he can't be a party to them convincing themselves to stop. However, he doesn't know where to drive. All around the clearing are trees, branches, confusion. He lets the truck idle, the engine running, and then shakes his head in disappointment, switching the key off.

By the time he has gotten out of the truck cab and rounded to the back of the vehicle, the others are descending from the back. They're confused, he can tell, and he doesn't like that. "Did you find anything?" he asks them, and receives blank stares. "In the back. Is there anything we can use? Anything – guns, knives, explosives?" They shake their heads. "All right. We will find a way to go from here. But we must stick together." All around them is a round wall of greenery, and he wonders exactly _where_ he intends them to go. Still, they have to go somewhere. There has to be a method to it, however. What can he use?

The numbers. Hurley's numbers. 4-8-15-16-23-42. He isolates patterns from them as quickly as he can, tries to focus and find the number from them.

4 + 8 - 1 + 8 - 1 2 - 4.

4 + 8 - 1 + 8 - 1 2 - 4 32.

32-bit data on that computer, he remembers.

32 black squares in chess. 32 white squares in chess. 32 pieces on the board. And they're playing chess, aren't they? They must be.

32 is a space in computer text. A space for what?

Half of 32 is sixteen, and if it's not chess, it's backgammon. If the pieces are set up on their numbers to reverse one another on a backgammon board, 16 is the odd number out. Two sides, two colors, 2 16 32.

He eyes the body. _Let that be zero._ He fixes on a point a bit off to the side. Just enough for thirty-two degrees, he hopes. He wants to measure it, but they certainly haven't got the time to be exact.

"That way," he says, and points to where he's isolated.

"You're guessing," Ana-Lucia says, stalking up towards him. "You don't know anything. You're just guessing because you want to find the damn place."

"I do," Sayid replies, and then shakes his head a little. "But I promise you, I'm not guessing."

She snorts and shakes her head. "Yeah, right. I'm supposed to just believe you?"

"No. You are supposed to watch." He walks forward to where he's isolated, ensuring Ana-Lucia can watch him. He hears them following, and is relieved at that. Either they trust his judgment or they're worried about his sanity, and he does not care to find out which is which at the moment. He has more important concerns to figure out. He moves towards the brush at thirty-two degrees, pushes it aside like parting a green veil.

_Success,_ he thinks, staring. He can see the pavement stretching out before them, dark and newly poured, the road freshly laid down, and the warehouse beyond looking old and jarringly decaying, but the weirdness of it doesn't enter his mind. All he sees in looking at it is a means to an end, no matter how strange that means is. As the rest of them cluster around him, though, he hears gasps, and turns to study them. Locke is the only one who does not look surprised; his face is closed-looking, as much of a straight and flat expression as he can make it, as if he's attempting to give away nothing. Sayid has seen the expression before, and knows it for what it is: A transparent attempt to hide what he knows.

"Do you recognize this, John?" His voice is quiet, but businesslike. He can hear it in his own tone. "From where? Have you been here before?"

Locke shakes his head. "No, I – I…" He trails off, shaking his head. His eyes are wide, and that closed expression opens up into shock and confusion. He raises a hand to rub at his head, hesitating. "My parents – they got this letter right before I went on walkabout. There was this photo in it, and I remember, because it said 'Jeannie' on the back."

"Jeannie, your sister?" Kate chimes in. Sayid wonders how she knows this, and she gives him an apologetic grin, telling him, "When we went after the boar with Sawyer, Sayid, he told us about her. She died when you were young, right? Fell off the monkey bars. And then your mom – she thought that the dog that you guys had afterwards was Jeannie."

Locke nods at that. "Yeah, uh, she did. But anyway, my parents figured this was just a prank." He points to the immense building at the end of the road. "That was in the photo, though."

Eko speaks up, sounding concerned as well. At least he asks a satisfyingly logical question. "Do you remember anything else about the photograph? Any landmarks, anything that would tell us where we are?"

Locke considers for a moment before shaking his head. Sighs all around the group at the lack of information. Sayid isn't disappointed, though. They have gotten more out of the guy than he would have expected. What is even better is that Locke appears to continue to think about this for the next moment. "There must have been a postal mark on it, because it had been mailed. But I don't remember. I'm sorry."

Sayid thinks over his own words, too. He has to ask the right questions or Locke will stop talking. "Is there a chance that your sister might still be alive?"

"I hadn't _thought_ so," Locke allows, "until we got that postcard. I guess she could have been, because I was young – all I remember was them saying that she's broken her neck, watch out. But if she is, then that," he points towards the building, "has something to do with it." He starts for the building, striking out before the rest of them. He's surprisingly quick and agile when he wants to be, and though Sayid reaches for him, he misses.

_I thought you did not want to go on this journey, John,_ he thinks dryly, _and now you're more eager than any of us to continue with it._ He knows better than to mention that to Locke, though. Instead, he keeps his peace, watching the bald man start off down the road.

Locke keeps on walking, and Sayid turns back towards the others, shrugging. "Ensure you have your weapons. We will follow John," he states the obvious, starting for the warehouse beyond. They file out, and they don't talk, again. This time, though, he's sure it's not out of lack of anything to say, as it was on the arduous first part of their trek. Instead, they all have too much to say about things, and none of them wants to be the first to talk. He allows them their silence, their thoughts, doubts, questions. He can do nothing to answer any of the questions, but he suspects that they are about to get answers very soon.

"I can't believe we're following this guy. He's a nut," Ana-Lucia mutters beneath her breath, but not even she stops walking. Either she is speaking with sufficient quietness or Locke is distracted, because he does not turn around to confront her. "He's got problems, that guy." When Eko shushes her, surprisingly, she actually listens.

_We are going to walk right up to their door and ask for Sawyer back, at this rate,_ Sayid thinks. _I doubt that they will listen. Why they volunteered to deal with him, I have no idea, but they wanted him for some reason, and I doubt that they will let him go easily at all._ He wishes he had more weapons than just a few pistols and a rifle or two. He wishes they had a better plan. But he has been out of his element in the jungle, and he is not going to recommend a siege now, which would be the wisest course. Time is of the essence, and they must directly attack. A siege would be useless if they are being watched, as well. The element of them having the upper hand, time to plan, is gone. All they can do is to rush in and try to surprise the people in there, whomever they are.

He watches Locke's movements, and is surprised by their freeness. It is almost as if the idea of seeing his sister here has loosened him up, and Sayid has to suppress a grin at that. _He will find his little sister, and I will find Nadia._ If he forgets that, too, he has the dog-tag in his pocket to remind him. They will get Sawyer out, too. Of that, he has no doubt, although he worries that Locke's eagerness to find his sister might make them lose focus, worries that Nadia herself, the dreams he'd had, might distract him.

They must not be distracted. They have done well so far. They have made it through the jungle to _this_, whatever it is, and they will continue to do well. God is smiling on them in the mid-sky sun, or their pursuers are casting a wider net than he has suspected. He chooses to err on the side of caution, and silently runs over the lines of noon prayer in his head even as he tests his reach for his pistol.


	45. Lawyers, Guns, and Money

**XLV: Lawyers, Guns, and Money**

Once his brain started working again, Sawyer was aware at first of the cheesy decorations in the Pollo Tropical. Honeycomb palm trees, a glossy-paper margarita glass on the far wall. He stared at them for a long moment, the colors bright, the margarita glass making him thirsty. His mouth was dry because he was thirsty. That was it. It couldn't possibly be because right now, he had three people staring at him, one in recognition and the other two in disbelief and then disgust. He didn't dare turn his head and look at them. He felt his temples throb, raised a hand to rub at them. That didn't help. He would have to face them. He summoned the nerve as best he could do and turned his head towards Jeannie. He stopped there. He couldn't look at the marks.

"Jimmy Ford," Jeannie continued, "How's it going? You look…" she trailed off, smiling a smile that he knew was more conciliatory than genuine, "… different. Older."

"I _am_ older. So are you. Twenty-three, right?" He was being generous by underestimating, and he knew it.

"Twenty-four. Almost twenty-five, if you can believe it. So you have to be about twenty, twenty-one yourself, right?" Jeannie seemed to realize then that he was not her only customer. She looked past him to the redheaded businessman and his girlfriend, but Sawyer didn't dare look that way as well. "And you folks are friends of Jimmy's."

"You bet." Sawyer heard the smile in the businessman's voice, and that made his shoulders tense so much that when the businessman laid a hand on his shoulder, he flinched and then inwardly kicked himself for it. "Smoking section, please."

As Jeannie turned away, getting the menus, Sawyer fought the urge to break free of the grip on his shoulder, even as it grew tighter. The redheaded man's voice was closer to his ear than he had expected. "We need to have a little talk – Jimmy Ford, is it? Hell of a name. Sounds like an outlaw or a cowboy. Shame it isn't the name you gave us."

He could not answer. His mouth was too dry. When Jeannie turned around, the businessman dropped his hand from Sawyer's shoulder and said, "Lead the way." _So this is what the Bataan death march felt like,_ Sawyer thought wryly as he set foot for the booth in which Jeannie had decided to place them.

He could not speak. There was no way he could say anything to the businessman that would explain things. He had relied on the con of his brother having the jewelry, and if he had not been honest about his name, they knew that there was no brother now, either. He had blown it, and not just the failure, but the threat of what could happen next hung over his head. All the possibilities he could consider wound up with a scene from _Scarface_ playing itself out in his mind. There was no way out that he could see.

He sat down at the booth, sliding in. The girlfriend sat next to him, but from what he could feel of her shoulder against his, her leg next to his, there was a hardness to her body that suggested she didn't want him to do anything for her anymore. She had trapped him in the booth, and he gave the other man a weak smile.

The redheaded man lifted a hand to the bridge of his nose, rubbing it as if he normally wore glasses. He leaned in close, and Sawyer could see the pressure on his face, the way his jaw ground down on itself, the way the skin stretched around his temples as he thrust his face forward. "So, Mr. Ford. I'll make this simple. Why did you lie to us? And how much of what you said was a lie?"

This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

–––

The gun feels too heavy, and he tries to straighten his aim, puts all of the muscle in his arm he can into the weapon, tries to make it an extension of his arm. They've got guns on him too, and he gets off one round, then two, three, four… six. He shoots as mechanically as he can, his arm not jerking with each shot, but staying eerily steady, as if held up by wires. He can do it when he focuses. He's done it once before.

Are they down? He doesn't dare look and check. He hasn't got the time. He springs to his feet and would take off, get out through whatever means necessary, even run straight through the glass if he has to, but he's not going anywhere, because there, looking very disappointed in him, is Colonel Klink, Kelvin, and he recognizes him now, in the red hair, the way the clothes don't fit. _The mark in Florida. They were onto him even then._

He stares for a moment, maybe gapes a little although he'd never admit it, and he squares his shoulders. He can take the guy. He's bigger and he knows how to fight, and after the immediacy of the gunshot, the rapid sobering that's brought upon him, he doesn't feel drunk anymore. _Mano a mano_, this guy would be no trouble.

"Think about what you're doing, Mr. Ford." The man's voice is honeyed. He'd be a good con man in his own right, for at the dulcet tones Sawyer almost gives in on impulse, only managing to hold back through force of willpower. "Where are you going to go? There's nowhere for you to go. What, are you going to go back and tell your friends about us? You folks won't be able to do anything." Kelvin extends his hand for the gun. "Give me the gun, please, and we promise this will go much easier for you."

"Have the damn gun, then," Sawyer shoots back, and then he tries to literally do the same. He brings the gun around, levels it on Kelvin, pulls the trigger, and fires, the gun kicking back in his hand. There's nothing, though. The bullet does not hit. Kelvin only smiles, a crooked expression that doesn't help Sawyer's nerves any.

"Six bullets in there. You already used them. Once more, please think about what you're doing. You have a history of not doing that. You said before that you wanted to be a good candidate for the upload, and that you wanted us to help you." Kelvin's face is innocent. It sends chills down Sawyer's spine. "How can we help you if you can't help yourself?"

And then, before he can think enough to whack the guy with the weight of the gun itself, it's fished from his hand. He doesn't know how; all he knows is that one moment, he's got it, and the next moment, it's gone. _How the hell…?_ He stares and clenches his fist, clutching uselessly at air.

"Don't make us drag you because you're being uncooperative. All we've asked for is cooperation from you. You could at least give us that. Start walking."

–––

At least the food was good, even if the conversation was not. He did his best to stammer out an explanation, about how he was just a con man and that was all, and this was his first job, and he hadn't expected anything like this to happen. He smoked three cigarettes over an hour, more out of nerves than out of any real urge for them, inhaling and exhaling as rapidly as he could do. The whole time, the couple stared at him, and he could not only see the disbelief on their faces, but could feel it issuing from them, sparking from them like something electric.

_If this is my last meal, it's a good thing they're paying for it,_ he thought. He'd ordered the most expensive thing on the menu just to irritate them, and as he cut into the Caribbean-glazed steak, he felt at least a little bit of triumph at that. Even that victory, slim as it was, made him happy. He chewed slowly, watched the redheaded man's face change again. He had stopped telling them his story, and the carrot-topped man was staring at him with disbelief. His face was soft as he considered, and then it grew firm as he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ford. We can't believe you. You aren't telling us the truth. You aren't as naive about this con job as you want us to believe." The redheaded man reached out for the steak knife, taking it quite casually. Sawyer felt himself grow tense. The knife drove into the steak rapidly, a definite threat. Plates rattled. Juice oozed out of the meat, and splattered around the table a bit.

Sawyer felt himself jump. However, the hooker girlfriend did not flinch. Her posture remained still and taut right next to him. He envied her for her coolness.

"I won't belabor the point, Mr. Ford. James. Jimmy. Sawyer. Whatever you call yourself. By trying to do what you tried to do, you put yourself in a very dangerous position." The redhead's voice was flat. His eyes were dead. "You are on thin ice. See to it that you don't fall through."

Sawyer tried to smile and failed. He looked down at his steak, the handle of the knife sticking up before him, the meat split around the blade like a slaughter in miniature. He swallowed, glanced back up at the redhead, couldn't look into those lifeless eyes. He had to change the subject. "Back at the casino, your girlfriend wanted to screw me. Ain't she gettin' any, Bonaduce?"

–––

As they walk down the hall, those same deadened eyes stare at him now, with the same unfriendly expression in them. Sawyer wants to tell the other man, _I know who you are now, you bastard. I _know_ you. I almost conned you out of ten thousand dollars, when, really, you and Jeannie were the ones conning me._ He can't say that, though. Kelvin won't care, and he's not sure that he really cares, either.

"Hey, Bonaduce – what are you lookin' at?"

Kelvin smiles. "The other shoe drops. I was wondering how long it would take you to put it together. You know, you're bright, we always thought, but I was surprised at how long it took. You kept on calling me after _Hogan's Heroes_ for so long I thought you honestly didn't remember. Smart, though, for finally putting it together." At least the man's voice holds the slightest approval. Sawyer doubts that will help matters, but he feels glad he was finally able to piece something together. "Of course," Kelvin continues, "being drunk and drugged probably didn't help your comprehension, but that was intentional, and you're used to being a lousy drunk, aren't you?"

He has the perfect answer for that. "Go fu – "

"You're not in a position to be giving me advice." The appreciation at Sawyer's figuring is gone from the voice, now. Kelvin escorts him down the hall, pushes open a door, takes him down another hall to the left, then another one to the right. Sawyer tries to keep the rabbit-warren paths straight, but they're disorienting. He wouldn't put it past them to deliberately do this so that he can't find his way out of the place. At length, they must be at some central place, because one of the guys traveling with them moves ahead of them a few steps to open the door.

Inside, he can see something – hospital-ish. A long cavernous machine that he figures is the MRI, and a computer that, unlike the one in the Hatch, is up-to-date, and tons of things that, if he were a science brain, he's sure he'd figure out. He hasn't got the education, though, so he doesn't know what – _The hell with it,_ he decides. _This looks bad. And no amount of education's gonna tell me anything else._

As he stands there for at least a few split-seconds, staring, aghast, lights start to flash. An alarm starts to screech. The guard is distracted, but Kelvin, unfortunately, is not. He starts walking back the way he came, and Sawyer winces at that. He'll be expected to follow, and they've got a long walk ahead of them. He isn't looking forward to it.

"Move." Kelvin's voice is steel.

Sawyer double-times it, the graze on his ankle starting to hurt now, too. _I get shot way too much,_ he thinks, but he manages to keep pace. What choice does he have? They wanted him shot, and they want his brain, and the only thing keeping him alive is how alert he is, how much he participates. He knows that, and he follows after Kelvin, only needing to extend an arm to the wall for balance once or twice, the twinge in his ankle painful, sure, but he's had worse, even on Mystery Island. "Where are we goin'?"

The reply is brusque, choppy, as if the alerts have distracted the speaker. "Back. To see them."

"Who?"

"We're off to see the Wizard of Oz," Kelvin snaps. "Who do you think? Whomever managed to breach security, Ford. And you're coming with us. If it's someone come looking for you, then you could be quite valuable indeed. You'll get us them."

"I ain't doin' anything like that," Sawyer responds, but he receives no answer for that, and so he keeps walking. If they're taking him outside, he's got a chance. He just hopes that, whomever's out there, they can figure out what's going on and respond well, because he won't have the time to think this through in any great detail. If he can trust whomever's out there, though, then he stands a chance of getting free, getting away with nothing more than a bit of a nick in the ankle, and with his shoulder fixed as well. He hopes he can trust them. It would be nice to be able to rely on someone for once. Maybe he should try it. He follows Kelvin through the maze of hallways again, sees the sun glint through the glass where he had gotten shot, and can hear a commotion arise from the outside. It's not good for the guys here, and that's a good thing indeed.

He would smile. He doesn't dare. But he feels almost happy now. _Awesome, the cavalry came to the rescue._ Now all he has to do is think quickly, and he's good at that. Isn't he? He thought he was, but… _Doubt later. Act now._ And he clears his mind as best he can. He intends to do just that.


	46. Carmelita

**XLVI: Carmelita**

"Charlie? Have you seen Hurley?" Libby wants to call Hurley 'Hugo,' but she does not dare. She strides towards the blond Brit, smiling at him. She aims for genuine, but the tenseness she can feel tells her that it's only congenial at best, and perhaps not even that. She takes a deep breath, adding, "He's been missing since last night."

Charlie shrugs, shakes his head. "Not a jot. Sorry."

_Where could he have gone?_ She shakes her head, scowling at the lack of response before dropping the expression, aware that she was involuntarily scowling at Charlie instead. However, she does have something to discuss with him, and she leans in towards the question a bit, to prove to him that it's serious. "You didn't tell him, did you? About what I told you – about him?"

Charlie scoffs, shaking his head. "Not at all. Why would I do that? You told me not to, didn't you? You think I'd just turn on you and him, and _tell_ him? To spite you? No bloody way; I won't. Unless you want me to tell him now – is that the story? Changed your mind?"

She bites down on her lip, not daring to give him an answer. Anything she could say in the situation would be wrong, and she knows it. The last thing she wants is him dogging her for more answers. "Forget it," she replies, and then adds a, "Please?" to soften the command.

He shrugs carelessly. "Well, all right, then. I won't. Of course, if he's _gone_, I can't very well do that, can I? We'll look for him instead. We'll find him, wherever he's gone to. He's run off before and we've found him. No trouble."

She wants to tell him that it's more complicated than that. She wants to say that, if he's made it anywhere beyond just this edge of the island, he may well have been taken by the people that run the place. She wants to explain all this to him so that he can understand the gravity of the situation, but instead she shakes her head. "All right, if you insist."

"Of course I insist. That's why I _said_ it!" Aghast, Charlie shakes his head. "We'll find him. I just… need a moment. See you in a few?"

"For what?" she asks, but he's already taken off. She stands and stares for a moment before shaking her head, and goes to pack. She hopes she remembers how to get through the island, and supposes that she will find out. On their trek through the jungle, Ana-Lucia led them down a few wrong paths, and they seemed to make out all right. If only that fellow Goodwin hadn't been placed in there, she suspects they would not have gotten off-track. That was the wrong idea, and should she have the opportunity, she means to mention this to her superiors. That is, if they even want to see her anymore. They probably want nothing more than to have her off the island and to have her stop interfering with the experiment, but who can blame her, she reasons. Things went south and they started killing people. That was not the plan. They are not scientists anymore. They want to be deities.

She has not signed up for that. She has expected there would be some unpleasant parts to this, even anticipated it, but not murder – never murder. There has been an agenda here she hasn't been told about, and she was uncertain if that scared her more or irritated her more.

She packs her stuff quickly – she doesn't have much, thanks to that trek across the breadth of the island's inner jungle – and resumes waiting for Charlie. When he comes out, she thinks, _Oh, no._ His pupils are constricted, little dark pinpoints in his pale face. He's clapping his hands together briskly, as if in premature celebration of the journey. His mood is instantly chipper. "All right! Ready to go?"

"You…" She knows a heroin user when she sees one. She stares at him for a long time, her mouth agape, unable to get the words out within the proper time. "You're using," she declares flatly. "Trust me. I've seen plenty of users."

He rubs his hands together briskly, sticking them in his pockets, and bebops around towards her, his eyes on her. "Using what? I'm not bloody well _using_ anything."

"I'm not going to find Hurley with you if you are, and you are," Libby replies solemnly. She slings her pack on her back and prepares to set off without him. "Goodbye, then. Wish you could have come along."

That stops Charlie. He panics, taking a few steps towards her. He looks at her dimly, shaking his head. "No. You're not going without me. Hurley's my friend, and no matter if he was your patient, I'm finding him along with you."

"You won't even walk properly if you take another hit of that stuff," she warns him.

Charlie bristles. His chest sticks out, as if he's got something to defend, as if she has somehow slandered his honor. Maybe she has, but she does not care. He deserves to be called out on this, especially as he wants to put himself in a dangerous position. She cannot let that happen. _Too many have died already, even if they were not specifically recruited, and he _was_ specifically recruited,_ she thinks.

Libby's voice is direct. "You're _not_ going with me."

Charlie changes his mind, then, and the contrast startles her. "You're not going to find him like that. We need to do something different than just go off on a search through the jungle. Look at the other search," he observes. "They didn't find Sawyer, did they? No. So this one won't find Hurley, either."

She stops, turns towards him. Her voice is sharper than she had meant it to be. Something about Charlie's boyish enthusiasm for everything exhausts her, brings that tone out in her. She wishes it didn't, but there it is, and there's nothing that can be done about it. "What?" She takes a step towards him, but he does not take a step back.

His tone grows sharper. "You won't find him. I know where he is." She stops cold. For the moment, his voice seems not his own, as if somehow the heroin has taken control of his nerves, turned him into something – a robot, perhaps, a machine, a mouthpiece for some nebulous group that might be Dharma, but probably isn't. She is not quite sure what it is. She stares at him, her eyes widening, and he only continues. She feels further stunned at her mistaken guess: "They took him. They must have taken him like they took the people from your group. My friend is gone, and Claire doesn't want me around anymore, so there's no bloody point to this place."

She feels like laughing when he pulls out the gun. It's so incongruous that she has trouble not doing that. She manages, though. "Charlie," her voice is soft, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Getting rid of this bloody place. I'm sick of all this! If they're taking people, if they took Hurley, we're drawing their attention, and not through some mad search party." He doesn't shoot her, though. Instead, he turns and starts moving, sprinting as quick as he can, and she knows enough about the island to know instantly where he's going: _Desmond's hatch, and the computer therein._ She starts to run after him for the bunker, hoping she can outrun him.

With adrenaline fueled by drugs, heroin addicts are apparently harder to catch than she would have expected. She stumbles on twigs that he has sailed right over, nearly knocks into the hatch while he glides right past it. "Charlie! Wait!" She can offer him no reasons why, she realizes, and so keeps trekking after him.


	47. Veracruz

**XLVII: Veracruz**

Sawyer had planned to take the money he got from the con and go, he remembers. Somewhere outside of the States, but not too far. Mexico would have been nice, maybe, and nobody would have gone to the trouble of looking for him there. Settle down in some resort town, Cancun or Veracruz or Cozumel Island or somewhere. Sit back in the shade, drinking margaritas and listening to mariachi songs. Retire early, at twenty-one. That sounded like a good plan and, for at least a moment, he'd had the money right there, and things ready to go. He had come so close to actually doing that.

But when they'd found him out, he'd been screwed. He'd had no good explanation, and he'd known they hadn't believed him. He still doesn't know how he got out of it, but now, on a tropical island he didn't even ask to go to – and this wasn't Cozumel, not by a long shot – he knows he was let go. He was let go, only to wind up here. They had been watching him when he was in the real world; he had known that since that phone message he'd gotten in that little North Carolina town. He shakes his head at that, though, disbelieving. _Too easy. They wouldn't have let that slip. They wouldn't have been that careless. They wanted me to know. They _needed_ me to know. Why?_

He doesn't have the answers for it, and he does not have the luxury of taking some time out to think about it. All he can do is backtrack up towards the main entrance, and once they get out of the maze of paths into the central complex - _Why was it built so confusingly? What didn't they want to come in? What threat were they protecting against before we came?_ – he starts to recognize a few things from his trek down. He was close to getting out, he realizes, and that takes him aback a bit. He was so close, and now – now he's gone and screwed it up.

_You'll make it out anyway,_ he tells himself. His ankle stings still, and he's limping a little, but not too badly, not at all. He has to get out, and he focuses on that. They're taking him outside, and he won't have to play by their rules then. Whomever's come for him must have come in a group, because he can hear a clatter of army guys or something making their way past him, can see them jog up past them and disappear up ahead.

"Jesus," Sawyer lets out, "all those weapons, you'd think Godzilla'd come to attack. Big monster, shakes trees, crashes through the forest. You run into it?" He wants to get information, and he has to fight not to look too concerned about the answer.

"You want to know what it is," Kelvin replies. "Sorry. Can't do that."

_He knows what it is._ That's confirmation enough, and Sawyer tries to look disappointed. "Yeah, well. Figured I could let my friends know – you know, when I get back to 'em – what the story is there." He sets a hand on a door handle, clinging to it for a moment before jogging to catch up again. "You know, if we're all gonna be eaten by it when doomsday comes, we may as well know what the hell it is."

"What makes you think you'll see your friends again?" Kelvin sounds curious about that, not threatening, and the lack of a threat is more disturbing than Sawyer has anticipated. _He honestly does not picture me making it back,_ he thinks. _The hell with that._ He's got his plan, and though it would be easier to work if he weren't already being slowed down a bit by his ankle, it's all right. It'll work. He goes over it again, a third time, then a fourth. He would have gone over it a fifth time, but they're almost at the door, and he looks out and he can see the road again and a couple of people on it, and he thinks of bolting instantly, but then doesn't think that's a good idea. They haven't pulled any guns on him yet. If he can make things work out so that doesn't happen, so much the better. If he knew whom was out there, though, he could figure things out, figure out how they'll react, figure out how he should act, but he doesn't have that luxury, either. He's out of a lot of luxuries today.

"Hey, Bonaduce," he says, leaning heavily on the door frame, thinking, _Your ankle's hurt for a while, idiot. Move past it._ He sucks in a breath, drops his voice, makes it look like his injury's taken hold of him. His voice pitches lower, and he makes his foot go limp, dragging it a bit. "You wanna know what to do with those guys out there? Whoever it is, I've fought with them, so I can tell you what to do. _Trust me._" By that time now, he's gasping a little in pain. He's not sure it's entirely an act.

And, unbelievably, Kelvin actually does move towards him, if cautiously. He doesn't believe him a bit, Sawyer knows, but the traitor act has piqued his curiosity. The redhead takes a step forward, and Sawyer looks outside, stares into the noon light, fakes distraction for a moment. _Closer, you bastard._ He's looking into the light, but he can see Kelvin's movement peripherally, and he leans into it as he waits, shifting his weight forward, ready to spring.

Kelvin's used to keeping things out of _his_ arm's reach, so he stops short, but he doesn't stop short enough. Sawyer's taller and longer-limbed, and he can reach him, whereas Kelvin doesn't stand a chance of grabbing him unless he jumps and puts himself off-balance. He had counted on getting that chance.

And he's got it.

Though it kills his ankle, he springs forward, grabs a hold of Kelvin, gets his arm with his own good hand, wrenches it up and holds it tight in a lock. _You bastards shot me in the shoulder, and now let's see how your shoulder feels._ He'd be lying to say it doesn't feel good to get a little revenge, but he does his best to keep it at bay. He's opened up the burn on his hand, too, and that's starting to ooze something scary, but that doesn't matter. He yanks harder on Kelvin's shoulder, and his own shoulder hurts, and his hand and his ankle too, but that's all right, because he deserves that much, anyway.

"Move," he repeats Kelvin's words. That feels good too. He braces himself though, because, hell, given past altercations with scary people, who knows how strong this guy is? He hopes he won't find out that things have changed since they talked at the casino and the restaurant, because if they have, then he's in deep shit. He shoves at the redhead, though, and there is no resistance. "Any of your goons come after me, and I'll tear your damn arm off. Don't think I won't," he tells Kelvin as he pushes him out, careful as possible to keep a tight hold on him.

The sunlight hits him sharply, and he squints against it, tries to focus. The figures – two, four, five – come into focus, and he can tell who they are. They're clustered on the macadam out there, and he suspects he knows why. He doesn't dare look up above, but he can hear the shuffling and rustling that announces snipers. He starts to laugh, feeling hysterical again. This is good. This is too good.

"Jesus, guys, you came a few minutes too late," Sawyer declares loudly. "And it looks like they've got snipers on you. Meet Kelvin. Kelvin here runs the damn place, or," he adds, noticing the redhead's flinch of disagreement, "close enough for government work. Or whoever's work it is. I don't think he likes me much." He notices Locke and Kate start at that. He wonders why, and then decides he doesn't care. They probably met him just like he did, back before the crash. There will be time enough to sort that out later. "Kelvin, tell those damn snipers to stand down."

Silence.

"Tell those snipers to stand down, or I will kill you, you son of a bitch."

Silence. He wrenches Kelvin's arm up into a direction it was never meant to go, and Kelvin's not silent anymore. "Stand down!" the man orders, half in a yelp, and he can hear the clatter of rifles unloaded. All of them, though? How can he tell? He doesn't dare turn around, and he doesn't dare loosen his grip on Kelvin.

He hits upon the person to watch. Sayid. He meets the shorter man's eyes, sees the slight nod. They must have actually done what Kelvin ordered. Will it really be that easy? He can't believe that. But he has to. A trained military man says it looks that way, and he has to believe that. His head is starting to pound, and the gravity of the situation is starting to swirl around him, enveloping him like a cloud, like that damn smoke – the hell with that.

Sawyer keeps a tight grasp on the redhead's arm nonetheless. That stuff oozing from his hand isn't letting up; he must have popped the blister. It burns now like he'd just had the cigarette on it, and he likes the feeling, in a way. It tells him he's still human. "Tell them what you were doing, Kelvin. Tell them now."

Kelvin doesn't say anything. That makes him angry. He's going to get an answer out of the guy, because they won't believe _him_, not Sawyer; they'd never believe him, no matter what he says. He needs to get it out of Kelvin, and he moves his fingers to clutch Kelvin's wrist, put pressure there, prepare to break it if he has to. It's a drastic move, and he knows it, but he doesn't feel bad about it. Why should he? After what they were about to do to him, he deserves this. And his friends deserve answers.

"Tell them, or I'll snap your wrist. And then your fingers," Sawyer commands, his hand stretching, the burn oozing, everything painful and burning at once.

"Sawyer, let's _go_!" An urgency in Kate's voice.

"Hey, listen, Sawyer, you're out now." Even the Latina urges caution.

"There is no need for this." Ahab, always trying to moralize the situation.

He doesn't listen to any of them.

Kelvin twists back towards him – _what that's got to do to his arm,_ Sawyer thinks, and he almost drops the arm out of pity, but he doesn't. The other man leans in towards Sawyer, and his voice is dispassionate and crystal clear. "One of them killed Frank Sawyer," he says, his voice pitched only for Sawyer to hear. "One of them did your work for you. Killed the man that you wanted to die. Cheated you out of that."

Sawyer glances past Kelvin towards the others, staring at them. And then he realizes, "He knew where Knoxville was," he murmurs, and he's not too sure if he's speaking to Kelvin or himself. _Fantastic. I spend my life trying to kill some damn guy that the Arab's killed at the start._ And then: "Dana? The newspaper guy? Ain't no damn way. No. No." He can't believe that, and he loosens his grip, staring, shaking his head wildly. _If I can't kill the real Sawyer,_ he thinks, _then what else is there to live for?_ His hand slips free of Kelvin's arm and down to his side, almost mechanically.

_Bad mistake._ He realizes that the instant after he does it. Kelvin's arm is fine, almost, and the free hand is sailing towards him for a punch, and he thinks, _He'll kill me. He'll kill me here, and I'll deserve it. I'll deserve all of it._ He doesn't even bother to duck, just shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to see the punch hit, knowing it will knock him unconscious and let them kill him, feeling his hands open slightly and thinking, _Hit me. Hit me and get it over with._

The punch doesn't come. He opens his eyes after a moment to see the big African guy, Shaft, Mr. Eko, standing near Kelvin, holding the redhead's arms. He stares, shaking his head, lets out a nervous little laugh. "Jesus, Shaft, that's some nice work you done th – "

Eko cuts him off. "We are going now."

"Right. Right," Sawyer says, and he starts to sprint, knowing as he does that the snipers will open up on them to shoot him, half of him, and the other half knowing that they won't, because they want them alive. They want them alive so they can change them, turn them into some sort of freaks, and he wanted Kelvin to say that, but Kelvin isn't going to tell them anything.

He hopes they'll believe him, once he tells them. And he hopes that they'll plan to do something about it. He takes a few steps forward, tottering a bit, and then, following Eko's quicker steps, he starts to run. Eko watches the stuff behind Sawyer, and Sawyer takes that as license to keep on hurrying forward, looking at the others – friends? That's what he'd described them as, but that was before Kelvin told him that.

Speaking of Kelvin, the plan worked. Taking Kelvin hostage worked. He's distracted by that, and for at least that moment, he feels exultant. He's managed to get out, and he's managed to have people come for him, and the whole thing is pretty cool, really, when you think about it, because he'd never expected that. This whole thing's surprised him. Most of it's been all right, really, and hey, he's still alive. He hadn't expected that.

That's before something hits him in the back of the head. It's not sharp, and it doesn't really hurt, and he knows it wasn't from someone directly behind him, and he doesn't think that any of the others saw it, but he starts to flail a bit, and his ankle and his hand hurt again, and he has no way to tell them this, because he can't find the words right now, and he starts to lose control again, thinking, _Not this again. Not when I was so close._ He can see them up ahead, but they're fuzzier now and darker, and he extends a hand towards them, hoping someone will take it and pull him along. They've come to get him, so they had better damn well get him, or else he'll never forgive them, once he wakes up, if he wakes up, and he hopes he will.

_Mexico would have been better._


	48. Backs Turned, Looking Down the Path

**XLVIII: Backs Turned, Looking Down the Path**

Sayid watches Sawyer starting to slip, thinking, _They've done something to him. They've done something to him while we weren't watching. All this way to save him, and he will die on us, and everything will be gone._ He shakes his head against that, then, extends a hand, seizes the other fellow's arm, hauls him as best he can. It's not exactly a graceful thing, but he manages to drag him up and – they're not following, he realizes as he looks back at the building. They're just standing there, the snipers and the fellow that Sawyer brought out, standing there watching. He can almost sense their satisfaction from far away. They've done what they want. What was that? He doesn't have time to think it over.

"Ana," he tells the girl, "stand guard. You and Mr. Eko. Don't turn your backs on them." He grabs Sawyer, or tries to: "John, help me with him." He takes a quick glance, sees breathing, sees open eyes, eyelids fluttering. If Sawyer's seeing anything right now, it's questionable. "Kate," he looks up towards her, sees the look of concern on her face, blinks at it, surprised, but moves on: "Scout ahead. Make sure we can get back to that truck."

They move forward, cautiously, and at each turn he expects gunshots. He does not get them, though. Nobody starts shooting. Nothing happens. It's downright _bizarre_, and he has to fight against the doubts that the strangeness causes, has to do his best to ignore it. He told Ana-Lucia that they would leave no one behind, and they are almost to success on that count. He will not give in to doubt. They must get out of here and back to the camp, and he must get things under control.

"Fuck off, Mohammed."

No question of whom that is. Sawyer has woken up. They're dragging him, and he glances towards the taller man, sees absolute hate in his eyes, is puzzled at that. "Pardon?"

"I _said_, fuck off. Can't you speak English?" Evidently absence does not make the heart grow fonder. There's something else there, though, and Sayid wonders about this. "You damn well – son of a – Christ, my head aches." Sawyer tries to walk, faltering after a few steps. "Where the hell are we going?"

"Back home," Sayid replies, and he wonders about this. The camps are their home, though, he supposes, as much as he hates to admit it. They have gotten settled there.

"You don't want to blow them the hell up? What kind of a soldier are you anyway?"

"One who believes that the better part of valor is discretion." He read that somewhere, and pauses as he tries to remember where. Shakespeare, perhaps.

The quote is lost on Sawyer, who simply laughs dryly. "Sounds like a goddamn terrible soldier to me."

_And that's why you're not one,_ Sayid thinks. He knows better than to provoke an argument, but it is amazing how things don't change. All the time they have spent going after Sawyer – it wasn't wasted, he figures, but he's amazed at the lack of appreciation. The man has no capacity for thinking past the present, he suspects, but he chooses not to share that as well. "Any sign of the truck, Kate?"

"Yeah, up here. How's he holding up?" Kate still sounds worried.

"Same as ever," Locke calls ahead. "He's been doing his level best to insult Sayid. I think that's automatic."

"Shut the hell up, Mr. Clean. What the hell do you know?"

"Make that both of us," Locke corrects. Sayid hears laughter in his voice, amused, but something is wrong about the situation. Perhaps it's Sawyer. Perhaps it's something beyond Sawyer. Whatever it is, it sets him on edge, and when Locke turns a broad grin towards him, he cannot grin back.

–––

They lounge on the truck, the two tailenders keeping watch even now. Everything is green around them, and he waits for something that is not green to break through, tries to isolate the colors and see the intruders should they come through the brush and get them. He would not put it past them to move silently, so he must pay attention to the colors. Those are what will tell him they're being watched. He keeps a hand on his pistol the entire time. It is prepared, he knows. He is surprised that he has yet to use it, but he is not disappointed. He would have been disappointed if he'd had to use it in haste.

He would have offered to switch off with them, but Ana-Lucia has insisted, and he is not about to gainsay her. She can make herself useful when she wants to be, and he is pleased to see that. Maybe he'll use that later, when they get the chance to go back here again. He has a billion questions, and expects none of them will be answered by Sawyer. He must go back here. But now is not the time. For now, they must rest. They must recoup their strength. They must recuperate, as well. They cannot do that when they're in the sights of the enemy, and he has to get them back to camp.

"You've got a bruise on your head," Kate's voice comes out of the general conversation.

"_Ow_. Jesus."

"Stay still. That thing's nasty."

Sayid glances up to see her inspecting Sawyer's head. "Did they hit you?"

"I ain't talkin' to you."

Sayid shrugs, shakes his head, lets the matter drop. Where all this animosity stems from, he has no idea, but he suspects continuing to talk to Sawyer will do no good. He can't afford an argument in the position they're in.

"We'll need to get Jack to check it out," Kate tells Sawyer, and Sawyer's mouth curls in disgust. "Stop, Sawyer. Who else would you want checking you out? He's a doctor."

"Those bastards fixed my damn arm. Not Saint Jack."

"He didn't get the chance," Kate insists, and then drops the subject. Apparently there is no point with arguing with a wounded man that just managed to get away from something unknown. Sayid wonders what, precisely, he escaped from, and makes a point to ask later. Kate stops her halfhearted attempts at first aid, but continues to stare at the back of Sawyer's head, distracted. "That thing looks really bad, Sawyer. You sure you're all right?"

"Fine. Why is everyone asking me so many goddamn questions? Can't you tell that I'm all right? What do I need to do, cartwheels or something?"

That comment earns a snort of laughter from Ana-Lucia. However, she says nothing to it. What she says instead is important. "Fifteen minutes are up, Sayid. We moving on now?"

_That quickly?_ Sayid thinks. _We have a long ride ahead of us._ He jumps out of the truck bed, taking out the keys. He pulls out the tag first – _Nadia_ – and still wonders about it. He will find that out later, though, too. Right now, he has to drive. Whatever happened to Sawyer, the sooner they get him back to base, the better chance he'll have at making it out all right. "We are moving on," he assures Ana-Lucia, and swings open the door to the truck. "Everyone get settled in the back, there. Remember how bad the tracks are – we have worse ahead. I am going to see if we can get the truck all the way to the camp."

Once more, he waits until the truck has settled before turning on the ignition. The engine whirs pleasantly, apparently still having a good amount of gasoline within it. The radio springs to life. It jolts him, but he knows, once more, nobody hears it. It is too quiet for those in the back to hear.

"_Bel salaam_. I suppose congratulations are in order." The American voice, as familiar as it is by now, chills him. "Halfway, at least. You found what you came for, didn't you?" _Not really,_ Sayid thinks. "That is to say, you managed to grab Mr. Ford. You don't have any answers, though. He has plenty. He doesn't know it, but he does. But I suppose you are no longer the sort to pry answers from people, correct?"

He clutches the steering wheel, his arms growing tight, his jaw clenching. The question that had arisen, _Who is Mr. Ford?_ is lost within a bitter surge of hatred for those words. How dare they imply what they're implying? He swallows, shakes his head, starts to switch the radio off.

"We will not leave this be, _ya Sidi_. You understand that, I hope. One military man to another – we have not yet begun to fight, as a famous fellow you may have heard of, John Paul Jones, once said. You do not know the extent of this even now, and we will not have things ruined because you folks have decided not to play by the rules. If you do not play by the rules, you will be disposed of. Do I make myself clear?"

He wishes he could curse so easily as Sawyer, for he would surely be telling the radio some harsh words right about now. He simply moves to flick the radio off and puts the truck into gear, even as Ana-Lucia's voice comes to him, "Hey, are we moving or what?" They are indeed, and the truck still runs surprisingly well. He plans to get them as far as he can on it, and he sets off, squinting into the early afternoon sun as he takes them back down the path they came, the truck jolting anew along the same track they've traveled once already.


	49. Frank and Jesse James

**XLIX: Frank and Jesse James**

At least they've got a truck. Small miracles. Sawyer spends the rest of the journey drifting in and out of sleep, exhausted as he is, snapping at people that try to ask him questions, feeling more worn out than he's felt in a while. Of course, tired as he feels, that would be when they'd ask him questions, their sense of timing wonderful. That would be when they'd try to pry answers out of him – half that he can't give, half that he doesn't want to give. People always seem to hit him at the worst moments, and he reminds himself that the bad timing isn't his fault. Many things are. But not that. How else do they expect him to react when they shake him from sleep, demanding to know what he saw in there? He doesn't even try to be polite.

And at least it'll be good to get back to their camp, too. The first thing he'll do when he's back is rip out all the damn cameras, smash the computer, force them to live on their own without the bastards watching them. That's the way it _should_ have been at the start. Whatever that place is that they found, it's wrong – all wrong – and he knew there were cameras there. He knew it. He should have trusted his instincts then. If only he hadn't been so out of it, he could have figured things out then, could have avoided all this trouble. Nobody would be on his case like he knows those bastards back at the plant are on his case now.

If these guys don't believe him, oh well. Too bad for them. They have no choice in the matter anymore. He knows more than them for once, and he plans to use that knowledge to his advantage, and maybe even theirs. If they don't think that they're being watched, he'll prove it to them, make them see. They'll have to admit he's right. For once, he'll be in control of the situation. He doesn't want to be boss of the camp – leave that to Jack and his crew – but at least he'll have some leverage. Maybe it'll be enough to get them to treat him like a human being for once, instead of the enemy. He's not the enemy. He's met the enemy. He knows who they are. He knows he's not them. If he's clear on anything, he's clear on that.

They travel for a good few hours on the truck, and he figures they know where they're going. They must have cleared a path, and wherever they found the truck, it must have had a good amount of gasoline. Around what he figures from the sunset is maybe a few hours later, he shakes himself awake, the truck having halted. He's rested his head on someone's backpack, and he shoves the backpack aside, props himself up. The others have made some sort of a campfire and are eating. _Bastards,_ he thinks. _They don't even wake me up for dinner. They probably want me to starve._ And then he feels guilty for thinking it, the chagrin a new emotion.

"What've you got there?" He drags himself out of the truck bed, limping a little, head aching still – maybe he's overslept – but hey, he's alive, and that's something to be thankful for. "Food. Hell, thanks. I'm starving." He grins broadly at them before dropping next to the campfire, makes his tone as saintly as he can do. "You know, they gave me beer while I was there. Good stuff. I feel sorry for you guys, not havin' had any." His grin widens, encouraging them to grin back.

Nobody does. An uncomfortable wave passes over the group, and he can see a few tight smirks on some of the others' faces, but none are real. He shakes his head, to show the apology without really having to say it, and reaches out for some food. Whatever it is, it's well-cooked, so he doesn't hesitate to eat it, biting in without caution. It could be some sort of slaughtered jungle cat or something, but it's the most delicious thing he's tasted in a while. He chows down, hungry as hell all of a sudden. _That underground bomb shelter had better have some food in it somewhere, because if there's nothing beyond island grub to eat when I get back there, Stay-Puft is going to be sorry._

He glances up towards them, sees Sayid start to speak, think better of it, shoot Locke a significant look. He looks Locke's way, and the bald man has set down his food and leans in to Sawyer, meaning business. "Sawyer, we're going to need you to tell us what you know at some point." He holds up a hand to forestall argument. Sawyer hadn't felt like arguing yet, but when that hand goes up, he sure does then. "We're going to need to know what you know about that place, all right?" There's a certain tone in Locke's voice he doesn't like. It's humoring him. Patronizing him. Nothing's changed, really. "When you get the chance, though. Not right now. You need to rest right now."

Sawyer can feel his throat constrict, pressure rising in it. And it takes all, but his head is starting to pound again. "Look, Kojak, I spent the past few days being told when I could rest. I ain't gonna listen to some stupid – "

"Sawyer," Kate interjects, but it's already too late.

" – being told by some weekend warrior and his terrorist friend and the 'before' girl in a Midol advertisement – "

_"Sawyer, for God's sake."_ Kate's voice rises.

" – can and can't do. I don't take orders, and if you folks think otherwise, maybe you weren't payin' a damn bit of attention back there. And I – "

"We are not asking you to follow orders," a bass voice cuts him off. "We are asking you to help us. If you have seen inside that place, then you are the only person who knows what we can do to take it over, if we must." Mr. Eko leans forward, staring at him, his eyes gleaming white against dark skin, darker twilight. "Whether or not we like it, that is the truth," the man proclaims, decisiveness in his voice.

Sawyer can't meet Eko's glance at first, but when he does, he sees an appeal there, something urgent, something desperate. They need him. They aren't just doing this because they couldn't leave him behind, because he was the same as anyone. _They need _him_, specifically._ He's not sure at first what he thinks of that. Part of him likes it, but part of him would rather be left alone. He doesn't want to be placed in the middle of things, by any means. Why couldn't they have tried to take someone worth taking? Why him instead? "Yeah, well," he replies to Eko, "I don't like it at all, either. But I ain't promisin' anything."

"You have not been asked to make any promises," Eko replies. "Keep eating. You are hungry."

This time, despite how weird he feels about it, he follows that order. He's hungry, though, and that's all there is to it. He doesn't have to listen to anyone if he doesn't want to, and he won't, he decides. He's still a con man, still an outlaw, and he doesn't have to listen to anyone if he doesn't want to. They can all go to hell, and he'll ride off into the sunset without them, leave them all in the dust. Screw 'em. That's something James Ford and Frank Sawyer had in common, and he's got no compulsion about doing it now. Really, it's for their benefit if he gets lost.

He just needs some time to rest, that's all; some time to get things in order. He'll help them, sure, but only as long as he needs to. He'll fix it so that they're not getting watched by those cameras, so that there's nobody from the center of the island or wherever the hell he was determining their moves. He'll set things straight, and then he'll be off again. They need him, but he doesn't need them. They're only good for a little while, just like everyone else in his life, and this won't change that, will it? No matter how they tear around on this island, playing war, it'll only be a few more weeks until they're rescued, and it's not like he's going to see any of them again. He needs to set things up again so that he's got enough to get lost again.

One thing's for sure, though, and that's that he needs to eat and rest. He'll wait. He'll help them. But when he's better, he's not going to stick around with them. They won't need him for very long. Nobody ever does. He glances up towards the sky, the blackness dotted with pinwheels and waves of stars, and he thinks, _I might as well be an astronaut up there, for all the good this world does me._ He doesn't share that, though. Some things, you just don't tell people, and that's definitely one of them.

Back in the truck, though, and time to keep driving again, it seems. The truck must've been blessed with a hell of a lot of gasoline; either that or Mohammed's been driving the damn thing without braking or speeding up the entire way, just coasting along.

When he starts to feel the salt air prickling his skin, making him sneeze a bit as it assaults his nose, he feels relieved. _Home_, he thinks, and then, _No way. Not home. You get to thinking like that, and you'll start relying on people that you don't want to rely on._ He lies there, still watching the stars. Maybe the others are talking. It doesn't matter, does it? He's got nothing to do with them beyond just what's necessary, and barely that.

As he starts to drift again, floating in the black and empty sea above, he feels the truck jolt to a stop. He curses in displeasure, and turns his head towards the cab. Sayid's stopped for something. He doesn't know what. He doesn't care what. He sees the other folks crane their heads around, though, and at length he sighs and mimics them. It still hurts, and he wishes he knew why.

The Iraqi's voice distracts him, though. It's somewhere between surprise and amusement, although – and Sawyer has to grin at this, because it's a hell of a thing to hear – he thinks he hears an undercurrent of panic in there, too. That pleases him, to hear Sayid afraid of something. It almost makes the entire fiasco worthwhile. But there's that one word, then. That's it. That's all Sayid says, and that's all he needs to say, because Sawyer's moment of delight at his expense vanishes just like that: "Hurley?"


	50. Play It All Night Long

**L: Play It All Night Long**

"Hurley? What are you doing out here?" Sayid can hear the surprise in his own voice, and he suspects that everyone in the back of the truck can hear it too. At the moment, it doesn't concern him. Let them think what they will – he has a rather scared-looking young man standing before him on the path that they have cleared. This is where it had rained before, he thinks, and looking down in the mud, where prints have formed, he sees no fresh ones from Hurley heading towards the truck, towards the way from which the truck has come. He sees none heading back the other way, either, and this puzzles him.

If Hurley hadn't walked here, how did he get here? Surprise turns to tension, to vague and unfounded suspicion. He cannot question Hurley here, however. It is neither the time nor the place. "It's the middle of the night, Hurley; you cannot – you should not – be this far out in the wilderness. You must come with us." He gestures vaguely towards the passenger seat. "Were you looking for us?"

"Dude, I don't know what I'm doing out here," Hurley admits, swinging onto the truck. Sayid can feel it jolt slightly with Hurley's weight, but has no fear for their safety. If the truck is sturdy enough to hold the rest of them, it will hold Hurley as well. The young man looks towards Sayid, grinning. "I was wondering where you guys had gone, yeah. I guess I got lost."

"Just as you did a few weeks previously. I see. Hurley, we are going to have to have a talk about your running everywhere in search of people." Despite himself, Sayid feels a smile form at that. He'll have to take Hurley along one of these days so the young man is satisfied with adventuring. He shifts the truck into gear and starts to drive again. The mud underneath has hardened with the passing day, and little scads of dust fly onto the windshield. Wet mud would be worse, though, and he's thankful all he has to deal with at night is the occasional spatter of dirt. "I hope you informed someone before you took off to play at being Marco Polo."

"Yeah, I did. I told plenty of people." Sayid knows he is lying. Hurley smiles wanly, looking at the track ahead. "So where had you guys gone? I saw Sawyer in the back of the truck there. Is he all right?"

"That question has a thousand different answers. Which one do you want?" Sayid replies dryly. "To answer the one that I think you want answered: He is alive, though at this point I am unsure if he wants to be. You don't need to worry." He glances towards Hurley's face, sees genuine concern there, is not surprised at that. The young Hispanic is concerned for everyone, he has learned. "What did you think you would accomplish by coming out here alone, Hurley? You were very far behind us. You would only have gotten in trouble. Remember the last time you struck out on your own?"

Hurley stares ahead, not answering for a moment. Perhaps he has no answer. As the silence stretches, Sayid suspects that is the case. He does not press Hurley, however, only guides the truck over the path as well as he can do. They will have the truck on the beach, and that will be useful. If they can use it as a truck, that will be good. If they will let him dismantle it, that would be better. He can already think of a million uses for all of the parts, and the new acquisition will come in handy in either case.

He has drifted off into his thoughts for long enough, it seems, that Hurley is getting bored with the lack of conversation. The large young man starts fidgeting and at length stretches a hand for the radio. Sayid glances that way, sees his hand, does not think anything of it at first, and then can feel himself doubletake as he realizes just what Hurley is about to do. "Don't!" he exclaims sharply, his hands tightening on the wheel.

Hurley turns a blank look towards him. "Um. Why not?"

Sayid shakes his head in vexation, although he's not sure if Hurley's question or his own exclamation annoys him more. "Just do not turn on that radio. I cannot explain it." He presses down on the gas pedal a bit harder than he needs to, the engine rumbling in protest.

"All that worrying about a radio earlier, and now you won't even listen to it? Man, Sayid." Hurley squints at him for a moment before shaking his head and turning to look out the window. "Whatever you say, though. It's your radio."

"Correct," Sayid replies. "It is my radio." He feels badly about warning Hurley off the radio so sharply, almost guilty. He should not have been so sharp to him. Besides, the young man is probably desperate for some chitchat, or at least something to listen to, and Sayid is not in a talking mood at the moment. His mind is on the drive ahead and what they have just come from today, and he does not want to talk about either with Hurley. "Do you still want to listen? All right. But I warned you, if you hear something you don't like."

He turns on the radio, his movements a bit hasty. He expects to hear someone greeting him in Arabic. He hears nothing. He turns the dial. Still nothing. And then, when the dial is almost up at the top, he hears some music being piped in. Seventies ballad, with guitar. Some American or Canadian woman is singing, an ethereal voice. He does not recognize it. From the look on Hurley's face, the young man does not recognize it either. The song is on its final chorus, the woman's voice joined by others', and the words chill him.

_"We are stardust. (Billion year old carbon.)  
We are golden. (Caught in the devil's bargain.)  
And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden."_

It seems a warning, and as they glide on into the night, drifting through the jungle with the machinery of the truck smooth and silvery, the song fading out with a repeated pattern of utterances, he can envision Sun's garden, its new plots in after the search for the ring. Nothing has grown yet, but it will.

Sayid realizes suddenly, as the radio turns onto another song, and then a third, and as the songs will play through the night: Sun's garden will be built over the graves of the dead, those that end in the island to begin again. They build their lives on sacrifices, both on the island and before the island. They must be prepared to make more. He presses his foot to the gas again and the truck is swallowed by shadows.

They are surrounded. Vines. Stars. Night. Blackness.


	51. Glossary

Please note: I speak pidgin Irish, no Romany, no Arabic. I may very well have screwed up any of the below.

**Arabic**

abu: 'uncle.' Used as slang term for an older man.

ad Da'ud: Ibrahim 'Abd ar-Rahman ad-Da'ud, Republican Guard leader named minister of defense after the 1968 coup, presumed anti-Ba'athist and exiled to Jordan in 1968.

al salaam a'alaykum: 'peace be upon you.'

argilah: pipe.

Ba'athists: The briefest definition ever: Saddam Hussein's political party in Iraq.

bel salaam: 'peace.' Greeting.

bismillah: 'in the name of God.'

ghusl: full ablution in Islam. I had Sayid follow Sunni practice.

hadith: folk tradition in all branches of Islam, with varying beliefs amongst the traditions.

hajj: Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca.

hijab: Muslim modest dress.

ihtaris - al-Jarrah ilhadun wa zindiqun: 'beware - Jarrah is a heretic and an atheist' (had someone check out the Arabic on this, but if I have it wrong, please feel free to correct me.)

Isa: 'Jesus.'

jahsh: 'dumbass,' but not quite as harsh.

mahdi: Islamic messiah.

Qa, 'alif, dal, ya, ra: Q-A-D-I-R.

sadikie: 'pal.' Informal.

salaam: 'peace.' Non-literally, a style of bowing.

shahadah: pronunciation of faith in Islam, or Islamic creed (Sayid recites it in 'Solitary' when Danielle traps him.)

shamal: A particularly bad type of desert wind.

Sidi Mohammed: Muslim ruler of Morocco in the mid-1850s, famed for an impressive court.

sukran: 'thank you.'

takbir, tahmid, tahlil, and tasbih: Muslim recitative prayer, obligatory.

ya 'Ammo: Informal title of respect to someone a generation older or younger.

ya Bek: Formal title of respect used for police and military officers.

ya Doctor: 'Doctor,' 'Professor,' etc. General formal academic title.

ya Sidi: General title of respect. Formal title for police and politicians, not used in official communications.

yalla: 'let's go.' Informal.

**Irish (Gaelic)**

mo chara, nár lagaí Dia do lámh: 'my friend, may God not weaken your hand.'

Sassenach: Saxon (English).

siúl: 'walk' (declarative.)

slán agat: 'safe by you.' Non-literal 'goodbye' (by the leaving person).

slán leat: 'safe with you.' Non-literal 'goodbye' (by the person who is left).

**Other Languages**

ja wohl: 'yes!' (emphatic.) German.

kafes: 'cage.' Turkish.

kala azar: 'black fever.' Hindi. (Leishmania donovani.) Parasitic disease of the internal organs spread by sandflies.

punji sticks: camouflaged stakes tipped with poison or worse.

spiuni baro: 'spy man.' Romany, the Rom (aka Rroma or "gypsy") language.


End file.
